CRUSHed Glass II: The Mirror Cracked
by MissMelysse
Summary: Inspired by (but not beholden to) MIRROR BROKEN (IDW, 2017), here's a glimpse at what the Mirror CRUSHverse might look like. 2nd-year cadet Zoe Harris is en route home from her training cruise on the Enterprise when a representative of the Resistance makes an offer she can't refuse. (Not the same version of the Mirror CRUSHverse as "To the Empire."
1. Prologue

_**Continuity Note:**_ _This story is not in the same version of the Mirror CrushVerse as_ To the Empire _, and has no impact on the primary CrushVerse._

* * *

 **Prologue**

His mustache pricks my lips when we kiss, and I flinch.

"Problem, lover?"

"Sorry. There was too much garlic in the Thai basil sauce at dinner. My lips are burning." It's a lie of course, but telling him that I hate the mustache would _not_ go over well.

"Perhaps you should avoid spicy sauces in the future."

"Perhaps I should."

He kisses me again, pushing his tongue into my mouth. As always, there's a faint acidity to his kisses. I wonder if it's something he's doing intentionally, because he gets off on pain, or if it's something inherent to all androids.

 _As if there are more than one… well, two. But we never speak of the other android. His brother._

My tongue duels with his as his hands reach for the fastening of my cadet uniform. I'm wearing the version that bares my midriff because he thinks it's hot. At least he hasn't insisted on the short skirts that used to be standard for women in the Imperial Fleet. Not that the trousers we wear are any less revealing, skin-tight as they are.

He tosses my shirt aside and removes my bra, ceasing his assault on my mouth to focus on my breasts, my nipples. First licking, then sucking, then biting. His teeth press a little too hard and I whimper.

He looks up at me, his face holding the hint of a smirk. "Too much, baby?"

He wants me to say yes, to be weak, and I refuse. "No," I say. "It's good." He was already shirtless before I'd arrived in his quarters, so now I reach for the gold sash tied around his waist. It's almost the same color as his skin. I cast the sash aside and let my fingers open his trousers. " _So_ good."

His smirk broadens into a menacing grin, and when he attacks my left nipple again, he bites hard enough to draw blood. It hurts, but there's pleasure in the pain, and I hate that, and I wish I could hate _him._

I find his cock and wrap my hand around it at the same time he manages to push _my_ trousers to the floor. "No need to use your hands tonight, lover," he tells me, pulling away. He takes one of the sashes – I'm not sure if it's his or mine – and ties my hands behind my back. "On your knees."

He doesn't _quite_ force me to take the position he wants, but when my lips meet his cock he fists his hands into my hair, pulling it rather than giving me verbal directions. I lift my eyes every so often to try to catch his expression, to gauge his… status… but it's not until I feel him throw his head back that I know his release is imminent.

His fluids are also acidic, burning the back of my throat, and it's agony to swallow, but if I don't, he'll tell me I'm rejecting him, that I think he's not worthy of being with an _organic_ , and there's something in his voice whenever he says those things that holds an underlying truth. I wonder, not for the first time, who caused this man – this brilliant, ruthless man – to become so twisted.

Androids don't require recovery periods. I've barely caught my breath when he lifts me to my feet, and then pushes me, face down, onto the bed about half a meter away. He isn't entirely self-centered, though. His cock may be driving into me from behind, but his fingers are at work, too, ensuring my pleasure, ensuring that I reach climax.

He gets some kind of smug satisfaction by knowing he can bring me off.

I'm _just_ at that peak when he tugs my hair again. "Say my name when you come for me, lover," he coaxes.

And I can't help it. I scream my orgasm into the bedspread, all the pleasure and pain wrapped in one word – one name – "Lore!"


	2. Broken Mirror, Distorted Face

**Broken Mirror, Distorted Face**

 _A broken mirror_

 _A distorted face_

 _A shattered heart_

 _A clear distaste_

Naked, I stare at the mirror in Lore's bathroom, trying to reconcile the tired, haunted woman peering at me from the glass with the twenty-year-old cadet I know myself to be. It is zero-five-thirty and my lover is dead to the world, caught in a dream program he's recently been experimenting with. I, on the other hand, am wide awake. My breast is throbbing where he bit me, and my wrists have ligature marks from being bound.

There's another bite mark starting to bruise in the place where my neck meets my shoulder – a souvenir from the third round of sex we'd had before I was finally allowed to rest. Lore keeps a dermal regenerator in the drawer beneath the sink for situations like this, and I pull it out and aim it first at the mark on my neck.

A few minutes of tingling, and my skin is smooth and unmarred once more.

I am about to heal the wound on my breast when Lore is behind me. "Don't," he says. "I like seeing my marks on your skin." He pulls the device from my hand and tosses it back in the drawer. "You're leaving today."

"I am," I confirm as he slides his hands around me, cupping my breasts from behind, and rolling my nipples between his thumbs and forefingers. "The senator has summoned."

"Give your mother my regards," he instructs."

"I will."

He leads me back to bed and encourages me to ride him until I am spent.

When I head to the transporter room three hours later, Lore does not bother to see me off, and I am neither hurt nor surprised by his absence.

 **(+A+)**

Starbase Twelve is the crossroads of the Empire, but even crossroads have VIP lanes, and while I may be a mere cadet on the _Enterprise_ , once I'm in transit, I'm not Cadet Harris anymore, I'm Zoe Harris, Senator Emily Harris's only daughter. I'm ushered through customs and immigration and issued a room key since it's twenty-four hours to my next transport. The senator, I'm informed, has sent her private yacht to fetch her child home.

With time to kill, I locate my room, stow my luggage, and trade my uniform for a purple turtleneck, jeans, and a pair of ancient combat boots that are nearly the same color as my shirt. Then I wander down to the commercial section of the station to find a café or a pub. What I really want is a frou-frou coffee and time with a novel in a place where I won't have to watch my back for a couple hours, but as I'm exploring the various options, I feel like I'm being followed. I try to use store windows to see if there's anyone behind me, but no one ever is. Even so, at least twice when I make random turns I catch Fleet Gold from the corner of my eye.

I move toward the center of the starbase, where there are no viewports so the rents are cheaper. Instead of cafes and family-friendly pubs, this sector is home to piercing parlors, head shops and bars. I still feel the prickles on the back of my neck that usually come when someone's watching me, so I decide that a bar is a good idea, after all. If nothing else, a drink would relax me a little.

The bar I choose is seedy and disreputable, not a place a cadet should be seen. Or a senator's daughter for that matter. Good thing, then, that there are no reporters in this sector.

The bouncer at the door peers so closely at my cleavage that I swear he can see the identi-chit tucked inside my bra. "You look kinda young for a place like this," he says, his tone oily.

"She is with me," says a voice from behind me. A voice that is both familiar and out of place. _Lore shouldn't be here_ , I think. _He should be on the_ Enterprise _, still._ I turn and find myself looking into a face that is at once exactly like and _nothing_ like that of my lover. For one thing, there's no beard. For another, this man's yellow eyes remind me, not of Lore's cold fusion, but the warmth of twin suns.

"I apologize for my tardiness, Zoe. Shall we go in?" He slips his arm around me, but stops at the point that his hand settles against my lower back. Lore's never touched me without trying to pinch or squeeze one of my curvy parts, and this man's graciousness throws me a little.

The bouncer's focus moves to my new companion. "If you're vouching for her, go ahead," he says. "Ain't gonna be me in the agony booth if she turns out to be underage."

As I'm led past the burly Lemnorian, I grin at him, and breeze, "Oh, don't worry. I'm legal. My partner just likes his women to _look_ tender."

Inside, the bar is dimly lit and there's Orion dub-step playing in the background. The combination of darkness and noise makes the place perfect for an illicit encounter, whether the parties are exchanging information, cash, or bodily fluids. Indeed, there's a couple in the corner practically fucking on the table, and no one seems to care.

I choose a table in the opposite corner, one where my back can be against the wall, and not-Lore settles into the chair across from mine. "Hello, Zoe," he says. "I have been looking forward to meeting you." From anyone else, the words would seem creepy, but there's no malice in this man's – this _android_ 's – voice.

"And stalking me was your brightest idea to go about it?" I tend to resort to snark when I'm angry, upset, or frightened. At the moment, I'm a mix of all three. "By the way, _Data –_ " I accent his name, making a point of the fact that I know who he is " - if you're trying to make people believe you're Commander Lore, you're failing big-time. Your uniform's at least three years out of date, and your face is bare; he's sporting a beard these days."

"Perhaps I am not attempting to duplicate the commander. Perhaps I need only look enough like him that no one will be certain he was _not_ here."

 _Oh._

"It would seem you do not require me to introduce myself," he observes when I am still silent after several seconds. "Perhaps I should simply explain why I – "

I cut him off. " _Perhaps_ you should buy me a drink, before you tell me what you want from me." My stomach growls. It is nearly seventeen hundred hours, local time, and I haven't eaten since ten hundred. "And a meal."

He responds with a tilt of his head and a slight uplifting of his eyebrows. A lifted hand signals the server, who asks for our orders. "A burger," I say, because it's been weeks since I've had even replicated meat (Lore doesn't like it when he can detect it on my breath) "…and a beer. What's on tap?"

The server tucks her hair behind her ear, and I glimpse the hint of a point on the latter. _Vulcan_. _Or Vulcan-hybrid. That means she's either an actual slave or an indentured servant._ She lists several and I choose a Deerstalker Stout because the name appeals to me.

My tablemate orders the same thing I do, but insists that his burger be made of 'compressed black legumes.' When the server clearly doesn't understand, I translate, "Veggie burger for the gold guy. Black bean."

Once she's gone I address the man who is definitely not my lover. "So, why exactly _were_ you tracking me? A girl doesn't like to be kept wondering."

If I'd expected him to hesitate or prevaricate I would have been disappointed. "The… organization… I represent requires help only you can give, and in exchange, we have a gift only we can offer."

"A gift?" I was skeptical and my face and voice showed it. "What could you _possibly_ give me that would make it worth doing something for the re – " He gives me a look and I cut myself short, then correct. "… for the people you represent?"

"This particular 'gift' is in the form of a person. Specifically, he is a high-value political prisoner whose release we have recently secured."

"'High-value political prisoner,' I repeat. "You mean dissident?" He confirms it with a nod. "Why would I be interested in some… rabble-rouser?"

"Because this particular person is the former dean of students at the music conservatory on Centaurus."

I can tell my face has gone pale. _Daddy? The resistance found you?_ Out loud, trying hard to remain calm, cool, and collected, I ask, "You have my father?"

"Yes."

"He's alive? He's safe?"

"He is both of those things."

"And you're seriously offering me the chance to see him?"

"I am."

"What do I have to do?"

"We will eat our meal, then go to your room where you will collect your belongings. Then I will escort you to our transport and take you to your father. After you have seen him, you will be given the opportunity to perform a service for us."

"I'm not going anywhere with you unless I have some proof that you really have him."

He gives a slight nod of acquiescence and lowers his head. When he lifts it once more, his eyes are unfocused and he speaks in a voice not his own – a voice I haven't heard since I was twelve years old. "Pigeon, it's time to come home."

If I wasn't already sitting down I would need to do so. Urgently. "That was my father's voice… How did you…? He's the only one who calls me that."

Data's eyes are fixed on my face when he says, with gravitas, "He is the one who told me."

My longed-for burger arrives a few minutes later, but I can barely choke it down. It tastes like sand.

 **(+A+)**

"Leave your luggage," Data instructs when we get back to my hotel room. "Transfer your belongings to this bag." He hands me a backpack of the kind any college student might have, and I stuff my padd, clothing, and toiletries into it. I hesitate over my uniform, but he suggests that I take it, saying, "You may have need of it, in the future."

Before we leave, he asks for my comm-badge and identi-chit. The former, he leaves on the bedside table. The latter he secretes somewhere on his person. "Won't I need that?" I ask.

"Not where we are going."

I know I should be watching him for weaknesses, but years of knowing Lore, and months of sharing his bed, have taught me more than anyone should know about android speed and strength, and I have no wish to experience the wrong side of either.

Besides, all I can think about is that my father is alive. _My father is alive_!

As we leave the hotel-part of the starbase and make our way toward the lower level docking bay where small craft are parked, Data slings the backpack over his left shoulder with no effort, and puts his right arm around my shoulders. "I am afraid it is in our best interest if people assume we are in a romantic relationship."

"Gotcha." I slide my left arm around his waist, and when he looks down at me with faint confusion on his face I explain. "Obviously, we're _very_ close." His lips, with no mustache or beard obscuring them, strike me as being sensual, and I wonder what it would feel like to kiss this bare-faced version of the man I left several hours ago.

No one asks us to identify ourselves when we leave the starbase. Data simply escorts me into his shuttle (older model, but well-maintained), powers it up, and requests permission to launch. I'm not certain if they believe he's Lore, if they know who he is, or if they recognize me as Senator Harris's daughter, and I choose not to ask.

 **(+A+)**

It is perhaps three hours into our journey when it occurs to me to ask. "Won't people be looking for me? I'm a senator's daughter, and I've gone missing… won't there be… oh, God, I'm AWOL."

Data's calm explanation is chilling, because it's the first time I see a similarity to my lover – to Lore – that isn't purely physical. "No one will be looking for you, Zoe. Thirty minutes after we left Starbase Twelve, there was a controlled explosion in the hotel block, and your room was the epicenter."

"You planted a bomb in my room?"

"Yes."

"So, if I'd refused to come with you I'd be dead?"

"No, Zoe. If you had refused to come with me, I would not have triggered the detonation."

I'm quiet for a while, digesting that. I leave the cockpit and move to the replicator in the aft compartment, where I order a mug of peppermint tea. From the moment we boarded this ship – smaller than a runabout, bigger than a utility shuttle - my… host… has been gracious, even reminding me to eat, drink, use the head and rest when I have need.

I glance back toward Data. Lore eats and drinks sometimes, at social occasions. I decide to take a chance and order a second mug, then carry both of them forward.

"Here," I say offering one of them to him.

"I do not require –" he begins, but I cut him off.

"I know. But I also know you _can_ eat and drink when you want to. Lore told me, years ago, that he likes to taste things."

"As do I," Data confirmed. "From time to time." He looked at the liquid in the mug, then gave it a sniff. "An infusion of mint in hot water?"

"Peppermint tea. Well, technically it's not tea – there's no tea leaf in it – it's a _tisane_ – but most of us just call it tea. I like it. It's… it's comforting, but the mint is also a stimulant." _Lore never shares tea with me_ , I don't tell him. _When we're together for long periods of time, I have to remind him that I sometimes have to eat and drink and eliminate._

"Thank you, Zoe," he answers. I settle myself in the co-pilot's seat and glance first at the forward viewer and then at the readouts on the control boards to see if I can determine our destination, but we're in a region of space I don't recognize.

I want to ask where we're headed, but first I have to know: "Data… the bomb you planted… it can't have taken out _only_ my hotel room, or my mother's people would question it. It would look too much like I was a specifically targeted. So… how many innocent people died so that I could go with you _without_ causing a search? I know that's why you had me leave my comm-badge and some of my stuff."

"Your father often speaks of your ability to 'put things together,'" he explains, putting audible quotation marks around the colloquial phrase. Lore speaks as casually as any human, but this man, I realize, is much more formal. "I dislike unnecessary killing, Zoe. My programming includes a strong proscription against doing harm, one my brother, as you may have noticed, does not possess. In any case, causing the death of innocents is not one of our goals, and we avoid it whenever possible. I cannot be certain that no one was killed, but the detonation was planned for a time when the fewest number of people would be in the hotel block."

I let that information settle for a moment. "Thank you for telling me." I turn my attention to my tea, but I've drunk it all; the mug is empty.

"Would you care for another cup?" Data asks, and when I answer that I would, he is the one to fetch refills for both of us. Our hands touch when I take it from him and it startles me.

I wait a minute or so for the tea to cool before I sip, and when I do, I notice a bitter taste that wasn't present before. "This tastes different. Did you change the blend?"

He's been standing in the space between our seats, watching me in that hyper-focused way I've seen in his brother, but he sits down before he answers my question, and turns his chair to face mine. "I must apologize, Zoe," he says, his voice calm and gentle. "I have added a sleeping agent to your tea, and I must ask that you drink all of it. As you have likely surmised, our destination is not a place one can easily find on current star charts and…"

"And while I'm not technically a prisoner, you can't afford to trust me?" My voice holds a wry note.

"That is correct."

"If I refuse?"

"Then I will have no choice but to ensure your cooperation by other means."

"Tie me up and lock me in the bathroom, you mean." I am only half-kidding.

"That is one method, yes."

"I've had my fill of being tied up, lately," I mutter, knowing he won't understand. "I won't be harmed while I'm unconscious?"

"You have my word."

His tone is grave, his expression serious. I _want_ to trust him. I'm quiet for several seconds, weighing my options, which are essentially none. Finally, I shrug and drink the entire cup of mint-and-bitter liquid.

"I will wake you when we arrive," Data promises. I want to ask how much longer we'll be in transit, but whatever he put in my tea is pulling me down fast.

"Cold," I manage to murmur before I'm too tired to speak.

He removes his out-of-date uniform jacket and covers me with it. "Sleep," he suggests. "You will not be harmed."

* * *

 **Notes:** Opening verse is from the poem "Broken Mirror," by Tamara Moir.


	3. Fallen Tear, Reddened Eye

**Fallen Tear, Reddened Eye**

 _A fallen tear_

 _A reddened eye_

 _A downturned mouth_

 _A year gone by_

"Zoe… please wake up. Zoe, we have arrived…" The voice is familiar, I hear it every day giving orders on the bridge, in the bedroom, but the tone is distinctly _un_ familiar. Lore never says _please_ unless he's being super-smarmy at an official function.

"Is that her? Should I get a medic?" This is a different voice, one I _know_ I've never heard before, ask.

"That will not be necessary. Please have the rest of your team off-load the cargo; Alyssa and Selar are waiting for those supplies."

"Okay," the slightly sullen tone tells me that the speaker is young, maybe my age, but more likely a teenager. I hear fading footsteps, but then they return. "She doesn't look evil."

"It has been my experience, Wesley, that one cannot discern who is 'good' or 'evil' merely by looking."

"But she's _Starfleet_."

"She is only a cadet, and she is also the maestro's daughter." The gentle version of my lover's voice pauses for a few seconds, before adding, "Your mother was also a Starfleet officer, once, as I was. Please see to the cargo." The last five words are more than a request, but less than an order. An instruction, I'd call them.

"Okay, Data."

 _Data!_

Memory floods back to me, and consciousness follows quickly after. I sit up in the co-pilot's seat of the shuttle we are in, and meet concerned yellow eyes with drug-addled brown ones. "Data…?"

"We have arrived at our destination, Zoe. Can you walk, or do you require a few moments to reorient yourself?"

"I think I'm going to puke," I announce, and then I do, though his android speed and dexterity allow him to move out of the splash zone. I wipe my mouth on a yellow-clad sleeve – his uniform jacket, not mine – and meet his eyes again, slightly less blearily. "Sorry."

"It is not your fault," he states. "I neglected to account for the alcohol you consumed when we ate together. I believe it had caused an adverse reaction to the sleeping agent I gave you."

"You think?" The snark is automatic. I am dizzy and groggy and have no filter. "Oooh," I say, letting my head fall back against the seat. "Everything's spinning."

Data - I know who he is now – seems to be assessing my condition. "If you will allow me, I will carry you."

I shake my head. "No, just… just give me a minute to adjust?"

"As you wish."

It's more like ten minutes before I feel steady enough to walk. By that time the boy? young man? and his friends have removed whatever cargo we'd been carrying. Data and I went directly from my hotel room to the shuttle, so it must have been loaded before he tracked me down.

When I feel strong enough, I realize that my escort is kneeling in the aisle between the two front seats, cleaning up my mess, and I blush. "I'm really sorry," I repeat. "I should have offered to help clean up, at least."

But he is already standing up, preparing to dispose of the rag he used. "There is no need. It is done, and you seem a bit less… 'muzzy' is the word, I believe?"

I manage a watery smile. "Muzzy is the perfect word, and yes, I'm feeling less…" I leave my seat. "So, we've done soporifics; what's next? Blindfolds? Handcuffs?" I stick my wrists out, mostly in jest, then pull them away when I realize he's noticed the ligature marks on my wrists.

"It would seem you were not kidding about having had your fill of being tied up," he observes, his voice gentle and serious. "I have no intention of binding your wrists or obscuring your vision, Zoe. Keeping our destination from you was necessary for security reasons, but you are a guest, not a prisoner."

"So you say," I half-grumble. I'll accept it when I hear it from someone else.

"So I mean," he assures me. I see him heft the backpack with my belongings over one shoulder. He waits for me to exit the shuttle before him, then closes the hatch once we're on the landing deck. Except I don't think it's a deck. More like a hangar floor. Data's arm goes around me, with that guiding hand at my back again, and I realize I'm beginning to find his light touch oddly comforting.

 _Be careful_ , I remind myself. _Android charm can be difficult to resist, and you should stay sharp._

Together, we make our way through a set of double doors, across a corridor and into a 'lift, that takes us down rather than up.

"Our facilities are underground," Data explains, catching my glance at the level indicator. "The residential sectors are on the lowest level. If you choose to join us, you will be given a tour, and assigned a room. For now, you will be staying with me."

"With you?" I ask, that piece of information pushing his other comment, the one about choosing to stay, to the back of my mind. "Just because I'm sleeping with your brother, doesn't mean I'm loose or easy. And anyway, you're not interchangeable."

"I meant no offense," he informs me. "I do not require sleep, so my bed is available. My room is one of the few with a private bathroom."

Understanding dawns. "You want me to be comfortable, but isolated from your general population until you know how cooperative I am and how much of a risk I may be."

Data's tone of voice hints at mingled amusement and being favorably impressed by my conclusion. "That is not inaccurate."

If he could see my smile from behind me, he'd likely identify it as _smug_.

 **(+A+)**

The corridors we navigate are empty, but I'm not sure if that's because of me, or because it's local night. The level of illumination is akin to that during night hours at the Academy or gamma watch on the ship. The room I am ultimately ushered into – more of a suite, or even a flat, really – is brightly lit, however, and surprisingly cozy.

Lore's quarters were the picture of efficiency. He had a customized computer console that allows him to monitor almost every part of the _Enterprise,_ but the décor is cold and angular, designed to intimidate. Even his art – panels of Max Beckmann's _Departure_ – demonstrated a taste for brutality and horror. (I often wondered if he understood that Beckmann was commenting about his treatment under the Nazi's, and not lauding their regime.)

Data's living space, on the other hand, feels warm and welcoming. While he also has an impressive computer setup, and while his space is impeccably tidy, the similarities end there. This android has a dining table with several chairs around it, potted plants here and there, and art that includes works by Mondrian and Picasso's _Violin and Guitar_.

There are even area rugs lending color and contrast to the institutional gray wall-to-wall carpeting.

"The bedroom and bathroom are this way," he informs me, and the fact that it takes a few seconds to grasp that I'm meant to follow him tells me I'm not as clear-headed as I thought. "Zoe?" I must be slower than I realize, for him to call me.

"Sorry," I say. I step through the open doorway and am greeted by a bed covered with a patchwork quilt, and the inquisitive _meowrrr?_ of an orange cat. "Is he yours?" I ask, gesturing to the animal.

"It would be more accurate to say that _I_ am _hers_ ," Data corrects. "She was a stowaway on a supply run last year, and does not tolerate many others. I would caution against picking her up."

But the cat has walked to the end of the bed, and is pawing at me. "I'm not entirely certain that decision is mine to make," I observe, amused. "What's her name?"

"Spot," he answers.

If I knew him better, if I were in his quarters under other circumstances, I might tease him for the name. Instead I open my stance and extend my hands. "Hi, Spot. I'm Zoe. I'll be your pris – _guest_ – for…" I pause. I have no idea how long I'm meant to stay. "… a while," I finish lamely.

She jumps into my arms and curls herself around, asking for pets, and I sit on the bed to avoid dropping her when I comply. For a few minutes, her purring is the only sound in the room, but she's soon had enough attention. Floofing her tail at me, she jumps back onto the bed and takes up a position on one of the pillows.

"I apologize for Spot's behavior." Data seems almost embarrassed. "It is atypical for her to approach strangers."

"I don't mind," I assure him. "I spent a lot of time on my grandmother's farm, as a kid. I like animals. I miss having pets around."

"Then perhaps your time here will not be entirely unpleasant for you, after all. It is quite early in the morning here," he adds. "Zero-three-hundred hours. Our day begins at zero-eight-hundred, and your father is as eager to see you as you likely are to reunite with him. I suggest you rest; the day is likely to bring heightened emotions."

"Thank you," I say, meaning it. "You're being very gracious, even if you don't require sleep." _Do you have a dream program like Lore's_? I want to ask. But I don't. "I hate to impose, but do you have an old shirt – a t-shirt would be ideal – I could borrow to sleep in. I didn't…" I trail off, not wanting to explain that since Lore never allowed me to wear anything to bed – _I want the feel of your warm human skin against mine, lover -_ and I'd been expecting to be on my mother's yacht with access to a few of my own things by now, I hadn't packed any nightwear.

But he doesn't react at all, except to murmur, "One moment," as he moves toward his dresser. A drawer is opened, a cornflower blue shirt is offered to me. "Will this be acceptable?"

"It's perfect. Thank you."

"There are towels in the bathroom closet; please use whatever you require."

I nod and brush past him to the other door. Alone, I take a few deep breaths and try not to think about kissing those mustache-free lips or caressing that naked face. My relationship with Lore isn't without attraction, but it's based on power and politics and sex is just the medium. Somehow, I don't think Data is the type to invite a stranger to explore physical intimacy.

Especially not a stranger who lets his brother tie her up.

Data's t-shirt is soft cotton, and the color makes my skin look tanner than it is. I'm enough smaller than he is, enough narrower in the shoulder and hip, that it hangs to my mid-thigh. Worn over underwear, it's completely acceptable.

I scrub what's left of the makeup off my face, and run my fingers through my hair. My brush is still in the backpack in the other room. I study my face in the mirror. I look exhausted and impossibly young, except for my eyes.

I shake my head to clear it, and try to imagine Data in this shirt. The color would complement his pale gold skin. I've seen Lore in uniform and various states of undress, but I've never seen him in any color other than red or black, the gold of a sash notwithstanding.

Data is at his computer when I leave the bathroom; I can hear the soft tapping of his fingers on the keys, and his murmured commands. I stare at the bed. I _am_ tired, and I _should_ rest, but my mind is spinning: _The father who was taken from me eight years ago isn't dead, after all. He's not even in prison. Will he even want a daughter who's a Starfleet cadet? Will he send me back to betray my commanding officers, or will he try to woo me to his cause?_

" …everything alright?"

With a start, I realize my host has asked me a question that I didn't hear.

"Excuse me?"

"I asked if you were alright. You give every appearance of being exhausted. Is there something you require?"

"I…" I hesitate, because honestly, I'm not sure what I need, but I notice that he has a replicator. "If it's not too much trouble, a cup of tea would be amazing."

"It is no trouble, Zoe. Is there a type of tea you prefer? The same peppermint we shared on the shuttle?"

" _Any_ kind of mint, would be lovely."

He nods, saves whatever he is working on, and blanks the screen. I had no intention of prying into what he was doing, but I understand the need. "If you would like to get into bed, I will bring it to you."

"Thank you." I return to the other room and slide into the bed. When he comes in with a mug of tea, I accept it gratefully, but when he lingers I invite impulsively, "Could you stay? Sit with me while I drink this? Talk to me for a bit?"

Data seems to weigh my invitation, but he nods once, curtly. "Very well." Gingerly, he sits on the edge of the bed, at the end, facing me. "What do you wish to talk about."

I manage a weak chuckle. "If I were any kind of loyal officer, I'd demand to know how many of you there are, and what your objective is, but I know I'm in no position to make demands."

"Even if you were, I would not disclose that information," he answers.

"Tell me this then: the uniform you were wearing earlier – " he changed, as well, while I was in the bathroom. He's wearing a close-fitting, navy blue shirt and khaki trousers, and I cannot stop staring at his chest. " – it wasn't stolen, was it? You were in the fleet once?"

"I was," he confirms.

"Lore is the older of the two of you, isn't he? Did you follow him into service?"

"I did not. In truth, Lore followed _me_ , though his commission was granted through petition, and I attended the Academy."

" _You_ did? Couldn't you just download all the class notes and test out of everything?"

"I could have," he agrees, "but I did not have the benefit of parental guidance during my first years of sentience, and I recognized that I was deficient in social behavior."

"So, you went to the Academy…"

"And graduated with honors in xenobiology and probability mechanics, yes."

"What was your first billet?"

"I was assigned to the _Stargazer_ , under Captain Picard."

"Picard? _The_ Captain Picard? _Jean-Luc_ Picard?"

"The very same."

"His biography is required reading at the Academy now," I share. "He's reputed to be a man of honor, and a brilliant tactician."

"Both descriptors are accurate."

"So, how does a sentient android end up serving with one of the most famous captains in the history of the Empire, and go from that to being part of the Resistance. Or are we still pretending that's not what you do?"

"We are no longer pretending," he agrees. "Drink your tea," he adds, in the manner of someone who has been around children, and knows their propensity for getting distracted. I make a show of sipping from the mug – it had been too hot before – and he continues. "My service to the Empire began during the last years of Emperor Spock's reign. Peace and prosperity had become the norm for most Empire worlds and we were able to turn our resources toward discovery and exploration without sacrificing defense."

"He was assassinated when I was ten," I say.

"And descent came rapidly after his demise," Data observes. "The Klingon-Cardassian Uprising was pinned on the Vulcan predilection for pacifism, and the enslavement of Vulcans was begun. Captain Picard and many others of us concluded that we could no longer serve the Empire in good conscious, and we took steps to end our tenure in the Fleet."

I had been half lounging against the pillows; but his statement makes me sit up straight. "Wait," I say, gesturing with the hand holding my mug and nearly splashing hot tea on both of us. "Sorry," I mutter sheepishly, but then I challenge him again. "Are you telling me that an entire starship went rogue?"

"In a manner of speaking. Captain Picard's XO, Jack Crusher and I arranged events so that they would seem like a mutiny. We staged a warp-core accident, scuttled the ship on an uninhabited moon, and those of us who chose to join the Resistance did so in small groups over a period of two years."

"But Captain Picard was given the _Enterprise_."

"Yes, he was. He felt he could be more useful to the cause and the Empire he had served for so long."

I can tell there's more to the story, but my mug is empty, and I suspect that the _more_ involves secrets I can't be trusted to know. _Do I want to earn that trust_? I'm honestly not sure. "Thank you for telling me some of your story, Data," I tell him. "I think I should grab a bit more sleep while I can."

He takes the mug from me, presumably to recycle it, and rises from the bed. I watch as he moves, the play of synthetic muscle under synthetic skin so familiar, and yet completely foreign, and for half a second I _wish_ that I'd met this man first.

"A wise decision," he says approvingly. "Goodnight, Zoe."

 **(+A+)**

I wake to the aroma of coffee, the murmur of two male voices that I can't quite discern, though I'm sure one is Data's, and a pair of orange and white paws knitting my hair. "Ah-ah, Catling," I greet the creature. "Hair is for wearing, not weaving." Well, not for me, anyway.

I slip out of bed and head directly for the bathroom, snagging the backpack with the rest of my belongings from the floor as I go. It only takes a few minutes to empty my bladder, wash up, and dress, but I pause for a moment, debating where to leave my borrowed shirt, before I fold it and take it with me. I make the bed, and leave the shirt on the pillow.

"…mission was successful," I hear Data's voice saying as I open the bedroom door. "The medical supplies were off-loaded as soon as we arrived."

"And my daughter?" the other voice asks. It sounds familiar – _Daddy?_ – but there's a fragility to it that is new to me.

"Zoe was unarmed, and cooperated with far more grace than I expected. I _did_ give her a strong sedative during the last portion of our voyage, in order to protect our location, but she drank it willingly. I woke her when she arrived, and brought her here… "

I notice that Data refrains from telling my father I puked in his shuttle.

"… where she is presently hovering in the doorway. Good morning, Zoe. Did you sleep well."

"Surprisingly so, thank you Data," I answer, making my tone a lot perkier than I feel. In truth, I'm nervous and feeling a bit shy. I move all the way into the main room, and get a good look at the man seated across from my host at the table.

The father I remember was bold and dashing. He would wear capes instead of winter coats, just so he could whirl around and make them billow. He kept our house full of music and laughter, and even though I was an only child, I was never lonely or bored, because there were always people trooping in and out of our house – students, local musicians, visiting artists. My father knew everyone, and was loved by all.

The man who I am unabashedly staring it has stooped shoulders and the pallor of someone deprived of sunlight for far too long. His once-shiny blond hair has turned yellow-gray in places, far more than it should have in eight years, and his eyes, his sharp blue eyes that were always so clear, so penetrating, so unlike the chocolate brown eyes my mother and I share, look dull and faded.

He rises from the chair, reaching for a cane as he does so, "Pigeon?" he asks limping toward me. "I half-expected to see a little girl."

"Well, it could be worse," I quip, automatically hiding behind snark. "I half-expected you to be dead. Or pointing a weapon at my head."

"I did promise that your father was both alive and safe," Data inserts, as if he's insulted that I doubted his word. Maybe he is.

My father favors me with a smile that is both warm and wry at once. "Rumors of my death were greatly exaggerated." Like father, like daughter. We both use humor to reflect. "I'm so glad you're safe and well, little pigeon."

The nickname from my childhood brings tears to my eyes. I step close to him, search the pallid, wrinkled face for signs of the man who used to throw me into the air and catch me again, just to hear me giggle. I'm surprised to find that I'm nearly a match for his height, and no longer have to crane my head back to meet his eyes. "Dad?" I ask, hating that my voice sounds tremulous. "Are you real?"

The question is _meant,_ inasmuch as I don't really trust my own perception, but it's also a test. I used to ask that question when he would comfort me after a nightmare.

It takes him a beat to realize what I'm asking, but he answers with the ritual response from my childhood. "As real as water," he whispers. "As solid as bone." His gnarled hands reach for me and I meet his embrace.

"Warm as sand." I speak the words against his shoulder. "Eternal as stone." The lines are from a story that was popular among children on Capella when I was little and we'd spent a summer there, and my last word dissolves into tears: "Daddy!"

"Pigeon," my father runs those horribly bent fingers – _did they actually_ _ **break**_ _his hands? –_ through my hair. "I love you pigeon."

* * *

 **Notes:** Poetry verse is from "Broken Mirror," by Tamara Moir. Apologies for the tease of making you think this had been posted last week. In truth, it _had_ , but I woke up in the middle of the night realizing I hated it, and it's taken me this long to write something that didn't have too much story. Capella (technically Capella IV) was the setting for the TOS episode "Friday's Child."


	4. Loaded Gun, Finished Fear

**Loaded Gun, Finished Fear**

 _A loaded gun_

 _A finished fear_

The hugs and tears of our reunion morph into a messy, gossipy conversation over breakfast in Data's rooms with each of us trying to catch the other up at the same time we're listening, and eating, and (at least in my case) attempting to include our host by providing context.

It quickly proves to be too much for my frail father. He asks apologetically if we might continue in the afternoon, over tea in one of the common rooms. No sooner have I expressed agreement (I'm a little overwhelmed, myself, and what else can I do?) then he takes leave of us, his waning footsteps syncopated by the thump of his cane. Apparently, he hasn't yet mastered the trick of moving it at the same time has his weak leg.

Left alone with Data, I'm at a loss. I've eaten enough that I'm no longer hungry, and I feel bad leaving him to clean up, so I push up my sleeves and begin stacking plates back onto the cart near the door – our morning meal had not come from any replicator.

Quick as lightning, his hands reach out to grip mine. "Zoe… your wrists…"

I glance at the half-forgotten marks from my time with Lore the last night I was on the ship, and I blush. "It's not what you think…" I begin, and then I amend. "Actually, I have no idea what you think, but it's nothing I'm not… used to."

"My brother did this?" he asks.

"He did," I answer carefully.

"As a disciplinary measure?"

"Not exactl… no." His unwavering yellow-eyed gaze has me looking up, and for some reason I can't dissemble with him. Or maybe I'm just grateful to talk to someone I don't _have_ to lie to or evade all the time. "He likes to be in control," I explain softly. "The night before I left, he decided that meant I didn't get to use my hands."

He pushes the cart of used dishes out the door, then returns to request, "Please come with me."

"I thought you were keeping me away from everyone?" I make it a question.

"You are unarmed, and I do not believe you will risk doing anything to further distress your father in his poor health."

"No," I agreed. "I won't."

"Very good." As he had on the Starbase, he puts a guiding hand at my back, but this morning I find his touch not so much jarring as reassuring. _Maybe this is his plan_. _Seduce me with kindness until I beg to stay_. Inwardly, I admit, it wouldn't take much. Even though I've seen practically nothing of the facility, met no one, there's a… a feeling… here of warmth and security. _Constant vigilance!_ I remind myself, remembering a phrase used often in a favorite book from childhood.

 **(+A+)**

The medical center Data brings me to is bright and cozy, with several mismatched chairs and a couple of shabby couches forming waiting areas. The doctor on duty introduces herself as "Dr. Ogawa, but we're not formal here. You can call me Alyssa."

Her friendly professionalism instantly puts me at ease. "I'm Zoe," I say.

"She is the maestro's daughter," Data adds helpfully.

"I see the family resemblance," she grins. I match her expression. My father and I look almost nothing alike. He's blonde; my hair is chestnut-brown. His eyes are blue; mine brown. Before he went to prison, he would have been five or six centimeters taller than Data, whereas I knew from experience with his brother that I came to just below the android's chin. "So, are you here for your 'welcome' physical?" Alyssa asks, and, unsure of what the correct response is, I defer to my host.

"Zoe has injuries to her wrists," Data supplies. "And I suspect there are other injuries that are less obvious. However, if you have time, an 'entrance exam' would be a prudent measure. Zoe will be our guest for… some time."

If Data's referral to me as a 'guest' gives Alyssa any qualms, she hides them well. "Sure thing," she breezes. "Why don't you go have a seat while Zoe and I do this?" she suggests. Half-teasing (I think) she adds, "You can still guard her from chairs."

"Very good," Data repeats the phrase he used earlier and moves away from us.

Alyssa, meanwhile, leads me a few meters further into the med center, to a privacy cubical with an exam bed inside. "Hop up," she invites. "Let's talk about your injuries first."

I show her my wrists, and she examines them. "These are a couple of days old. Data didn't have to restrain you, did he?"

"No, they're left over from… a partner."

"Ah." It's clear she comprehends exactly how I got the marks. "Any other injuries of a similar nature?" she asks, a note of sympathy in her voice, which she's pitched low to make it more difficult for Data to hear, though I suspect he could, if he chose to.

"Not similar, but… related, I guess?" I say. "There's a bite wound on my left breast. It hurts a lot, and it was oozing a little this morning."

"Alright," she says gently. "Let's have a look."

I remove my shirt and bra, wincing when the latter comes away from my nipple. Alyssa, I notice, winces with me. "That looks infected," she says. She picks up a medical tricorder and medical probe and scans the wound. "I'm going to give you an antibiotic, Zoe," she explains, trading the scanning equipment for a hypospray. "Then I'll use a dermal regenerator on the wound itself and on your wrists." I feel the stinging hiss of the injection.

"Thanks," I say.

The dermal regenerator is next, and even though it also stings a little, that pain dissipates quickly, and my breast and wrists are soon unmarked. Lore's instructions to leave the mark on my breast echoes in my head, and I shake it slightly, as if I can physically shift the memory away from my conscious mind.

"Okay, lie back now," Alyssa requests, and I comply, resting my head on the pillow she's provided. "I'm going to run a general scan, and ask you a few questions."

"Go for it." Medically, at least, I have nothing to hide

"You're sexually active?" she confirms.

"Yes."

"Is there any chance you could be pregnant?" She must see me stiffen, because she adds, "Sorry, it's a standard question."

"Oh. No. There's no chance." _Beyond no chance. A negative chance._

"Contraception?" I tell her I'm on annual injections, and she nods. The exam bar of the bed – it's an older model – moves over me from head to toe, beeping different tones. "Hold exam," she instructs after a high-pitched beep that sounds more insistent than the others. "Zoe, when's the last time you had a pelvic exam?"

"When I first arrived on the _Enterprise_ ," I tell her. "Last September." It's currently March, on Earth. I haven't had that sort of physical since before I started sleeping with Lore. "Why? Is something wrong?"

"There's unusual scarring on your vaginal walls."

My voice is soft when I ask her. "Does it look as though… as if a mild acid came into contact with… me?"

Dr. Ogawa – Alyssa - is reconfiguring the controls, changing the parameters of the scanning device, so I can't see her expression, but there's a sort of hum from the diagnostic scanner, and another beep, and she tells me. "Yes. It looks a lot like that." Gently, sympathetically, she asks, "Zoe… is the partner who tied you up and bit you the same person who caused this?"

"Yes."

"Is your relationship consensual?"

I squeeze my eyes shut. "It is… and it isn't. He's the first officer of my ship, and I'm a cadet, a woman, and the daughter of a powerful senator. He can be charming. He can also be brutal, and our relationship is based on power and politics and protection. I'm… he's never forced me to stay with him, but when we're together, in private, he's always the one in control." I pause. "You must think I'm weak and stupid and – "

But the older woman cuts me off. "There's no judgement here, Zoe." Her voice is warm and calm. "I was a cadet once, not so long ago," she shares. "A lot of us were. My section commander worked his way through almost every woman in our year, promising protection, plum assignments, lots of things. So, no, I don't think you're weak or stupid. If you were, you'd never have survived even six months on a ship like the _Enterprise,_ and certainly not in a relationship with someone like…." She stops herself.

"You know who he is, don't you?"

"The _Enterprise_ is a famous ship, Zoe. And Data…"

But I don't need her to finish that sentence, because I can fill in the blanks for myself. _Data feels guilty for Lore's behavior._ _That's probably why he's being nice to me._

"I understand," I tell her. "So… am I clear of any scary diseases?"

"You are," she confirms with a friendly smile. "Hold still a minute and I can heal that scarring," she adds.

I nod. She presses a button. I feel the familiar tingle of dermal regeneration in a wholly unfamiliar location, but it's over in a few minutes, and Alyssa is swinging the scanning arm away from me, and helping me to sit up. She hands me my shirt and I put it back on with a muttered, "Thank you."

"Listen, Zoe… I'm sure being here is overwhelming for you, even with Data and the maestro watching over you. If you need an ear – if you want a friend – come find me. Please?"

Her expression is open, her eyes fixed on mine. "Thank you," I repeat, adding her name, "Alyssa. I don't know how long I'm staying or how much freedom of movement I'll have, but I truly appreciate the offer."

She lets me leave then, and I return to the waiting area to find Data sitting with a young boy of about twelve, their heads bent over a padd. _He's the age I was when Dad was taken._

"Do you remember the mnemonic device I taught you, to help remember how these equations function?" I hear Data ask, his voice in an obvious 'teaching mode,' a gentler version of the one I've heard Lore use with my classmates during exercises. "It begins with an 'f,'" he hints.

"Fo… foal, no… foel?" The boy glances at Data, but the android's expression is neutral. "FOIL!" He doesn't _quite_ shout the word.

"Very good. And what do the letters in 'foil' represent?"

"First, outside, inside, last," the boy chants. "Oh… so I do this…" and he uses a stylus on the padd. "And then this, and this…" More taps and scribbles. "And the answer is seventeen."

"That is correct, Noah. You did very well."

I see the boy's pleased grin, which turns shy when he notices me. "Wesley said Data brought the maestro's daughter here to be with him until he dies. Are you her?"

 _Dying? My father is dying?_

The boy's statement has thrown me, but the man with the answers is sitting right next to him, so I pull myself together. "I'm Zoe," I tell him. "Algebra was hard for me at first, too."

"I'm Noah. I hate math, but Data makes it so it's not so bad."

I manage a weak smile. "I bet he does."

"Noah, you are late to your math class," Data reminds him gently.

"So are you," the boy shoots back.

"Wesley will be leading your class today," comes the android's response. "I am needed for other tasks just now. Will you take your padd, and demonstrate the next two problems for your classmates?"

The boy clearly doesn't want to leave; I can see him weighing options in his head, the same way I did at his age. "Yeah, okay. Thanks for the help, Data." He leaves the couch they're sharing, and heads off in the opposite direction we'd come from earlier, pausing to call back, "Tell Aunt Alyssa I'll see her at dinner!"

Data promises to do so, and the boy runs off. He waits a beat before addressing me. "Your father had intended to inform you of his condition himself. I am sorry you had to find out so…"

"Suddenly?" I ask.

"Indeed."

"I told Alyssa a few minutes ago that Lore could be cruel, but this… you? You're just as bad, Data, dragging me here to see the father I thought was dead, just to wait for it to happen so – what? So you can send me back to the _Enterprise_ on a suicide mission, or send me off to Earth to do something to my mother?"

"That was never our intent," he responds in the firm-but-gentle tone I'm beginning to learn is his trademark. "Rather, it is your father's hope that you will join our community, and work for the benefit of our cause."

"But you said…?"

"I said that you would see your father, which you have done, and that you would be given the opportunity to perform a service for us," he reminded me, his tone still gentle, but less firm. "You interpreted that to mean a mission for the Resistance, and should you choose to join us, it is possible that such a mission could occur. However, the service I referred to in our initial conversation is simply to ease the maestro's final weeks with your presence."

"Oh, is that all?" My tone is snarky and bitter, and I'm not sorry. "Just act as a balm to a dying man I haven't seen since I was a child?"

"I can see that you are upset." I wonder if he was programmed with customer service skills, or if he's really as sympathetic as he appears. "If you will allow me to, I would like to help."

"Help?" I still sound bitter, but, at least to my own ears, I also sound exactly how I feel: incredibly young, and terribly lost. "Help how?" I'm pacing in front of him. "Can you go back in time to when he was arrested and prevent me from being sent to my mother? Can you erase the last eight years? Can you give me the life of art and music that I was _supposed_ to have? Because the one I'm living involves being terrified and exhausted about ninety percent of the time."

I realize that Data, who may well be a candidate for sainthood, is sitting there letting me rail at him, and abruptly, I change tacks. "Do you have a gym?"

"A gym?"

"Or a music room? Music and physical exertion are how I… process." He seems to be waiting for more, so I elaborate. "Back home - on Centaurus? - I used swim or surf almost every day. On Earth, with my mother, I surfed and at the prep school she sent me to, I rowed crew. At the Academy, the focus was on combat training, but there was still a pool, and there were guards to make sure no one 'accidentally' drowned, but what I fell in love with was boxi…" I trail off, because the look I'm getting is one of consideration and evaluation. "What?"

"We do not have a dedicated music room. Many of us play instruments, and there is a piano in the common room where we will be meeting with your father, later. I cannot offer you a swimming pool, I am afraid, but we have a small gymnasium with a heavy bag and some weights. If you wish, I will accompany you there and you can 'burn off steam.'"

"I'm sure this isn't how you planned to spend your day."

"I had planned to get to know you – the 'real' you, and not the child your father remembers – as much as you would allow. If accommodating your desire for physical exercise will further that goal, I am amenable."

"You're studying me," I accuse.

"In a sense, yes," he admits. "While I do not believe you are likely to go on a killing spree, and while I have ensured that you have no access to outside communication, you are still somewhat of an 'unknown quantity,' and I cannot allow you to roam freely without being certain it is safe to do so."

"So, I _am_ a prisoner!"

"No. You are a guest. Merely one who must remain under… supervision… for a time."

"Does supervision include spotting me with the heavy bag?"

"If you wish."

"Any chance there's someone I can borrow some clothes from?"

"Clothes?"

Gesturing to my current attire, I explain, "This and what I wore yesterday are basically everything I have with me other than my uniform. When I left the _Enterprise_ , I'd been expecting to meet my mother's yacht where there's a private suite and a closet full of clothes that belong to me. Being kidn – " I pause at his look and amend "- _diverted_ here wasn't exactly something I could plan for. If you'll recall, I stole a t-shirt from you last night… or was that this morning? I'm still a little space-lagged."

Data's eyes begin to flicker back and forth in an eerily birdlike fashion. "It was early this morning, local time. There _are_ several women in here who are close to your size," he tells me after his eyes refocus. "But, I believe there are items in stores that will be better suited."

"You store clothing?"

"We retain nearly everything we find, but we also have several merchants and vendors who help us acquire goods and supplies. As well, we make 'shopping trips' from time to time."

"Of course, you do."

"Do you wish to accompany me?"

I was instantly calm. "Yes, please."

We go to the supply room, where I select several outfits, underwear, socks, and workout gear. I decide against any of the nightwear – it's all too frilly, and I already have Data's t-shirt. After leaving my new wardrobe in his quarters, he takes me to the gym, and lets me whale away at a heavy bag for the better part of an hour.

We both know I'm working out frustration, confusion, and distress, but he doesn't ask questions, and when, at the end, I break down in incoherent sobs, he pulls me into a warm, solid, hug, and rubs circles on my back until I'm calm.

 **(+A+)**

My father is already in the common room, seated in a wing chair with his feet propped on an ottoman and a lap blanket covering his legs when Data and I arrive. My hair is damp from my second shower of the day, but the exercise has me feeling more centered than I was earlier. I notice that the piano has a round stool, the kind I used to spin on until I was sick when I was a kid, and I choose to sit there.

"Do you still play, Pigeon?" my father asks.

"There isn't a lot of time for music at the Academy, and no opportunity at all on the _Enterprise_ ," I inform him, but I see disappointment darkening his blue eyes, and I add, "I play whenever I'm home. Mom keeps the baby grand in tune for me."

My mother is a ruthless politician, and not above using her own daughter as a pawn in her games, but she loves music as much as the rest of us, and ensured I kept up with private lessons when an arts school was taken away from my educational options.

Out of habit, I test the keys of this piano. They're a little mushy, but the instrument is in tune, and I start noodling a bit while Data and my father have a quiet conversation. If I paid attention I'd be able to hear what they were saying, but I'd been asked to give them a moment, and, for now, I'm willing to comply.

Also, I'm using my time to figure out how – or if – I should confront Dad about the truth of his health.

My noodling resolves in to Bach's "Minuet in G," but it's too spritely a song for what I'm feeling, and I modulate out of it, and into a song I remember from childhood about a child afraid of thunder.

I haven't sung it in forever, but suddenly the words are there, and I can't not let them out:

 _"Little child, be not afraid  
Though rain pounds harsh against the glass  
Like an unwanted stranger.  
There is no danger.  
I am here tonight."_

Music has always been a balm for me, a way to process everything. Swimming. Boxing. Music. I've been here less than twenty-four hours and checked off two out of three, almost as if it's been planned.

 _"And I hope that you'll know  
That nature is so.  
This same rain that draws you near me  
Falls on rivers and land  
And forests and sand -  
Makes the beautiful world that you see  
In the morning."_

"Everything's fine in the morning.  
The rain will be gone in the morning,  
But I'll still be here in the morning."

It's only when my father joins in on the last three lines, his once-powerful voice now reedy and thin, that I realize I've stopped the conversation, that I've been singing full-out, instead of under my breath, and that Alyssa and a few other people are hovering in the doorway.

"I'm sorry," I say, closing the lid so I won't be tempted to play more. "I didn't mean to disrupt anything."

But when I turn to my father, I notice that his cheeks are wet with tears, and I realize that with his broken hands and wrecked voice, the man they call _the maestro_ can't make music any more.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Pigeon," my father assures me. "I've missed your singing."

"You used to criticize me constantly," I remind him. "'Don't belt, Zoe. Breathe from your diaphragm, Zoe. If you lift your eyebrows when you attack the high note you won't be flat, Zoe. Remember, coo like a pigeon, Zoe, don't scream like a crow.'"

"Is that where your nickname comes from?" Data asks, interrupting our nostalgia moment.

"It is," my father confirms. "But we have other things we must discuss. Alyssa; I can see you hovering. I'm fine, for the moment. Data, would you mind getting tea for everyone. My pigeon prefers herbal blends."

"Certainly, sir." Data leaves his chair – a shabby wingchair that is a mate to my father's – and moves to the replicator to procure tea for all of us. He's either incredibly thoughtful, or he provides afternoon tea for my father often, because he brings a plate of fruit, cheese, and crackers as well as enough mint tea for three, and honey for those (me) who want it.

I leave the piano stool and perch on the ottoman Data isn't using, forming an intimate circle with the two men. While I listen to my father outline the trauma he experienced in prison, I watch Data deftly guiding a mug into the older man's hands, and steadying his trembling grip.

"The agony booth caused most of the damage, Pigeon," my father shares between slurps of tea, and tiny nibbles of cheese and crackers. He avoids the fruit, but encourages me to indulge in the crisp apples and sweet grapes. "At first, the sessions were random, given in response to a perceived slight, or an invented infraction. By the time Data orchestrated my release, I was in it almost daily."

I shivered. "I've been put in the booth on the _Enterprise_ ," I confess. I don't tell them it was one of Lore's kinky sex games, another of his attempts to mix pleasure and pain. Low-level bursts of the energy that basically rips your cells apart from each other and knocks them back together, just at the point of orgasm. But I avert my eyes when I tell them, and I have a feeling Data suspects why I was in it. "Even at a low dose it's horrible. It took me days to recover… I can't imagine. Daddy, I wish…"

"I know," my father soothes. "I wish you'd at least known I was alive, child. I confess, there were days when I also wished I would die."

"When did they break your hands?"

"It happened a few weeks before my escape. A guard decided to make a point. When I was too slow to get up and walk to the booth, he crushed my hands with his titanium-soled boots."

"Daddy, that's horrible." It's more than horrible, but I don't have the right words.

Every line in my father's face is etched into my memory at this moment, because all he does is make a kind of half-shrug and say, "Pigeon… it is what it is."

We continue chatting, alternating between heavy subjects and light. I learn that what I've begun to suspect is true: Dad has funded the Resistance for years, but while he was in prison, it was Data who handled all the day-to-day operations, moving their headquarters to this facility, making it into both a home and a community.

By the end of the afternoon, I'm convinced my new android friend should be canonized.

When my father tires, instead of calling Alyssa or one of the med center volunteers, Data and I escort him to his rooms.

While I tidy the bedding, Data helps my father in the bathroom, treating him with the same tenderness I expect he'd treat a small child, or his own beloved parent – if he had either. We get my father settled, and he asks if I'll massage a pain-relieving balm into his hands.

I glance at Data, who retrieves a tube from a nearby cabinet. I'm not sure if he's hovering to protect me, or protect my father, or both, but his presence seems natural, somehow.

I let the salve emulsify in my palm before I massage it into my father's paper-thin, leaf-dry skin. I can see – and feel – every knot of mis-healed bone, every vein, and I worry that I'm using too much pressure, but when I glance at his face, his eyes are closed and his expression is one of peace.

Struck by the shape of my father's fingers, once so elegant and graceful, and now gnarled and twisted, I spread my own hand on the blanket next to his. This is the one physical trait we have in common: musician's hands.

My father is asleep before we leave the room, and I'm unsettled enough that when Data guides me, not to his rooms, but to a large chamber that's been turned into an indoor garden, I barely notice the route we take.

He leads me through the space, to a bench near a small pond. "My friend Keiko created this space because she considers it to be unhealthy for humanoids to be deprived of green and growing things for too long. As I said, I cannot offer a swimming pool, but many people find spending time near this pond to be quite relaxing."

"Thank you," I tell him. "For everything. You're very good with him."

"I am glad to help."

I know I should be asking tons of questions, but I decide that they can wait until I've sorted through everything I've learned, and everything I'm feeling. Data lets me sit there, silently, until I'm ready to leave, and then we return to his rooms where I curl up on his couch with a novel for a while. When there's a knock at the door, with an invitation for both of us to join Alyssa for dinner, I'm happy to go, if only to get out of my own head.

 **(+A+)**

"Data," I ask over coffee and bagels on the fifteenth morning that I wake up in his bed. "Is there… do you have a partner who's been displaced by my staying here, or by all the time you're devoting to my father and me?"

 _Please say no_ , I think, and then I stifle that line of thinking as best as I can. The truth is, I'm asking partly because I'm becoming more and more attracted to him, and partly out of enlightened self-interest. If there's someone painting a target on my back, I want to know.

"I have not had a romantic liaison in quite some time," he answers frankly. There's something in his tone that's almost sad… or maybe it's more regretful. Unlike Lore, who is obvious about what he feels, this man's emotions are subtle, nuanced.

"I'm sorry," I tell him, though I'm not certain why. "I thought maybe you and Keiko were a thing." I've met the gardener now, a few times. She's been warm and welcoming, seeking me out for the occasional lunch.

"Do not apologize. I expected that you would ask at some point. Keiko and I are friends, and nothing more. I believe she has her eye on Miles. He is one of the men who keeps our shuttles in working order."

"Well, you know _everything_ about _my_ love-life." I counter. "I won't deny I'm curious… but I don't want to pry."

Data refills my half-empty coffee mug, as has become our routine. My father is usually with us for breakfast but he's chosen to remain in bed this morning, and my conversation is as much to distract me from worrying about what that means as it is to get a better handle on the man I'm cohabitating with.

"Her name was Jenna D'Sora. We served together on the _Stargazer._ When we met, she had just ended a relationship with someone who had not been treating her particularly well. We worked together on several missions, and became friends, and one day, in the torpedo bay, she kissed me."

"And you fell in love?"

"Not as such. I… at the time, I had not yet developed the capacity to feel romantic love, but we were close enough that when she revealed that she was pregnant I offered to marry her and act as a father figure to her child."

"You're a very kind man, Data."

"Thank you, Zoe. I believed it to be the correct thing to do."

"But you didn't marry."

"No. There was a mission that went wrong. Her ex – the baby's father – was injured, and Jenna felt obligated to be his caregiver. They left the fleet together, and I have not heard from her since."

"This was before Emperor Spock was killed?"

"Years before."

"How old _are_ you?"

"Chronologically, it has been thirty-three years, one month, twelve days and…" he trails off when he notices my look. "Thirty-three years as of February second," he amends.

"But you were activated as an adult, so your contemporaries are closer to my father's age."

"In a sense. However, as I do not age as rapidly as humans do…"

"I thought you and Lore were functionally immortal?"

"We can be damaged, and we can be destroyed."

"Killed." I can't help but correct him.

"Zoe?"

"You aren't a thing, Data. Neither of you. Things are destroyed. People are killed." I shiver, because somehow that sentence feels portentous.

"As you wish."

I roll my eyes at him, but I'm teasing when I do it. Two weeks of intimate living conditions and near-constant togetherness have us acting almost like a married couple at times, and the fact that I'm still wondering what it would be like to kiss him only adds a sort of charge to our interactions. I start stacking plates so I don't have to meet his eyes when I ask, "You know the… the intimate injuries that Alyssa healed for me, that first day?" I'd confirmed days ago that he'd overheard my entire conversation with the doctor, and simply had the good manners not to bring it up.

"I recall." He's always terse, I've noticed, when we're about to tread into territory that involves deep emotions or intimate revelations.

"May I ask you something… something that goes beyond personal?"

He seemed guarded as he answers, "You may ask."

I turn away and begin stacking plates as I ask, "Lore's… every time he kisses me or… every time we have sex, it's like acid. His saliva his… everything. Is that an android thing or something he's doing because he gets off on pain?" I pause and look at him, see the stricken expression on his face. "I'm sorry… I shouldn't have… there's literally no one else I can ask."

But Data isn't horrified – and it _is_ horror I perceive in his gold-leaf expression - because I've strayed over the line into TMI-territory, after all. "He does that to you… _every_ time?"

"I… after the first time it didn't make me scream as much." I feel my face go hot. This really isn't an appropriate conversation.

"It is not an 'android' thing, except that we can adjust the flavor, viscosity and… pH balance… of most of our bodily fluids," is the information he supplies. "I am sorry you have suffered so."

Embarrassed and suddenly shy, I shrug. "You know what they say. 'What doesn't kill us makes us stronger.'" More softly, I add, "Thank you for telling me the truth. I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

"Do not apologize," Data tells me. "As you said, there is no one else who could answer such a question."

"But…" I have no idea what I meant to say because when I meet his eyes again, I'm transfixed. His face – his smooth, beardless, mustache-less face is just so handsome, and his lips look so sensuous. My heart is racing, when I rapidly change tacks. "Do you ever watch romantic comedies?"

"I do not understand."

"Entertainment videos. Romantic comedies."

"There is a monthly 'video night' in the common room, and such choices are relatively frequent. Why do you ask?" His brows wrinkle, showing how perplexed he must be, and I almost reach out to trace them.

"Because in that kind of entertainment, there's always a moment where the mood shifts and one of the lead characters realizes she's attracted to the other, and really wants to kiss him."

Data takes the used breakfast dishes out of my hands, returns them to the replicator, and returns, but instead of taking his seat at the table, he goes to the couch. When we breakfast with my father, we often end the morning with us on the couch and Dad in one of the dining chairs, turned to face it. The straight back and firm seat provide better support, he says.

"Join me?" he invites, and when I do, he asks, "You wish to kiss me?"

"Can't slip anything by you, can I?" I quip.

"Very little," he agrees. "Zoe, if you wish to kiss me merely to satisfy your curiosity about android… flavor… "

"I don't," I object. And then I have to admit, "Well, I _do_ , but it's more. It's… these past two weeks spending all this time with you – the way you knew to take me to the pond after that first tea with my father, the way every few days you suggest another session with the heavy bag, because you can tell I'm feeling antsy. It's the way, from the first night I was here, you made me feel safe and comfortable. You've opened your home, given me your bed, and given me your company."

I'm saying a lot, but my voice is level, my tone serious, and Data is clearly paying close attention to me. "It's because of the way you take care of my father as if he were your own, and help the kids with their math lessons in a way that leads them to the right answer, but doesn't provide it. It's the way you rest your hand against the small of my back when you're walking with me, and the fact that even though you heard everything I said to Alyssa that day, you didn't push me for details, but let me ask my own questions, even when they're awkward and kind of rude."

"My father may have been funding all this," I continue, gesturing to the room around us, "but I know you're the one who's done all the work all this time. Yes, I know, you haven't been doing it alone, but you're the center. And you make me believe the Empire can be a better place again, and you make me want to be part of that change… but mostly, I want to kiss you, because I _like_ you, and I _like_ the routine we've fallen into with bedtime tea and breakfast with my father, and…"

As if my words are a loaded gun, and my bullet has found its mark, the rest of my explanation is cut off by the press of Data's lips against mine, firm and gentle and warm. It's a kiss that starts out chaste – closed mouths – but his tongue flicks against my lips, requesting entry, and I open my mouth to let him in.

His tongue finds mine, but he doesn't force anything; rather it's a sort of silent request, and I answer in kind, meeting his tongue with my own, making it a true exchange.

I can't remember ever enjoying a kiss so much in my entire life.

I'm so relieved to find that there isn't a hit of acid in Data's kiss. Instead he tastes faintly of some kind of sweet nut. Almonds maybe, or cashews. I'm not sure which. It's not strong, just a hint, an essence.

A woman could become addicted to his kisses.

We break apart, and I take a couple of shaky breaths. "Data?"

"You are not the only one of us who has been experiencing attraction." His admission is softly spoken, but his eyes, those warm yellow eyes, are wide open and fixed on my face. "May I release your hair?"

I'd twisted it into a messy bun that morning. I nod, and reach back to undo the barrette holding it in place, but he stops me, wrapping his hands around my wrists, and tugging gently. I flinch, and then I wince because I'm sure he thinks I'm reacting to him, when really, it's a sort of sense-memory of my hands being restrained.

Or maybe he gets it. "I will not harm you, Zoe. Please? Allow me?"

 _How do you say no to a handsome android asking to play with your hair? Answer: you don't._ "Okay." My voice is tremulous. I feel like a teenager with her first real boyfriend, but at the same time, I feel impossibly old.

He lets go of my wrists, and I adjust my position on the couch, scooting closer to him. I reach out, resting my hands against his chest. He's wearing a long-sleeved red shirt today, and _God_ , he looks amazing in that color.

With deft fingers, he releases the clasp of my barrette and teases my hair out of its twisted mess, so that it falls, wild and wavy from being put up while damp, around my shoulders. He twists one section of it between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, while his right drifts to my waist, providing warm pressure.

It's as if a circuit has finally been completed when he touches me, and when he dips his head to kiss me again I'm ready.

I'm so lost in Data's kisses, in Data's touch, in touching Data myself, that I feel like bells are ringing inside my head, and it's only when he pulls away from me and apologizes that I realize bells I'm hearing are klaxons.

"There is an emergency; I must go," he tells me, and the implication is that I'm to wait in his quarters, apart from the people who live here, because I'm still only a guest.

I surprise myself, and him too, by standing up. "No."

"Zoe – "

"I want to come with you. I want to be part of this." I realize my decision has been made for some time, but I haven't admitted to myself, let alone to Data or my father. "I want to stay."

* * *

 **Notes:** The couplet at the beginning of the chapter is from the poem "Broken Mirror," by Tamara Moir. Zoe's internal reminder of "Constant vigilance," is a reference to Mad-Eye Moody's trademark phrase in the _Harry Potter_ novels. The song she and her father sing is "Lullaby for a Stormy Night," by Vienna Teng. There will be one more proper chapter of this story, and then an epilogue.


	5. Bloodied Wall, Broken Mirror - Part I

**Bloodied Wall, Broken Mirror – Part I**

 _A bloodied wall_

 _A broken mirror_

 _"I want to come with you. I want to be part of this." I realize my decision has been made for some time, but I haven't admitted to myself, let alone to Data or my father. "I want to stay."_

Any response Data might have made is interrupted by the rarely-used comm-system crackling into life. "Data, we need you in the shuttle bay, please."

"I am – " he begins and then he returns his attention to me just for a second, long enough for me to mouth _please_. " _We_ are on our way," he amends. "The maestro's daughter will be joining us."

I'm not certain if he means 'us' as in the entire community or 'us' as in the people being called to assemble in the shuttle bay, and I'm honestly not sure it matters.

"So, I'm guessing we're not under attack," I say as we head out of his rooms and in the opposite direction of the med center and my father's apartment.

"An attack on this location would be extremely unlikely," he confirms. "Come this way." We turn into a corridor that ends in an elevator bank, his hand at my back the whole time.

"Do you do this with everyone you're walking with, or just guests, or just women?" I ask him when the doors have closed and the lift is moving. It's apparently a turbo-lift, and not a basic elevator, because I sense lateral motion before any kind of vertical shift. "The hand-on-the-back thing."

"I…" he stops, his eyes flickering back and forth, then shares, in a tone betraying his own surprise. "I only 'do that' with you, Zoe. If it makes you uncomfortable, I will disconti – "

"No!" I interrupt. "I like it. It's... it's been a long time since anyone touched me without it being patronizing or predatory. Although, if we're going to continue exploring what we began on your couch, something a bit more equitable might be in order."

"Equitable?" Data's yellow eyes are fixed on mine. "I do not understand."

I reach for his hand, and lace my fingers through his. "This," I say, squeezing slightly. "But this isn't the time to go into it. I'm sorry. How many levels underground were we?" I drop his hand, but I notice him looking down when I do it.

"Only two. The shuttle bay, armory, and security stations are on the top level. Medical, supplies, the 'library' where we have been spending time, your father's rooms, my rooms, and the apartments of a few others are on level two, along with hydroponics and the arboretum."

"And the gym," I add, noting the other space I've already been shown.

"Indeed."

"Level three is family quarters," he continues. "It includes dormitories for unattached adults, as well as apartments for couples and families. There are classrooms, several common areas, each with a slightly different theme and purpose, and a communal mess hall."

It crosses my mind to ask him if he'll be assigning me to a dorm, but I decide against it, and the next several seconds of our ride are silent. As we exit the lift and take the ramp that leads to the shuttle bay, his hand is at my back again, albeit with slightly more pressure, and I turn my head so I can flash a smile at him.

His lips turn up at the corners in the subtle response that is typical for him, but then his attention is transferred to the shuttle ahead of us, the one with the hatches open and the group of people next to it, including Alyssa who is hovering over a stretcher.

"Someone was injured," I say. _Way to state the obvious, Zoe_.

"Apparently."

We move closer, and I notice Alyssa react to my presence. It's just a look and a flash of a smile, as if she approves of me being here.

Beside me, Data is scanning the area. Finding his target, he calls out, "Wesley, report."

A lanky male figure – human – jogs toward us. "It's Miles… we ran into Starfleet on the station. Miles was hit in the chest by a phaser. Alyssa says he'll live… but they took – " He falters, noticing me, and then continues, " – they took the 'package' we were bringing home."

It's obvious from Wesley's tone and Data's grave look that the 'package' in question isn't cargo, but another person.

"Do you know if they were starbase personnel?" Data asks.

"No, sir. Starship. We heard them call for beam-out."

A sinking feeling begins to take hold of my stomach, and I blurt my question without thinking, "What ship?"

The younger man – well, younger than Data, he looks about my age, after all – Wesley, gives me a glance that clearly telegraphs his reluctance to provide information with me there. "It was the _Enterprise._ "

"I should go," I say, stepping away from both men. "I shouldn't be here; I should go check on my fath – "

"Zoe, wait." Data's voice, slightly louder than usual, firm but not angry, ends my retreat. "The _Enterprise_ was your billet until two weeks ago; therefore, you are our resident expert on her technology and crew." In a split second, he has taken on the mantle of the officer he once was, and I suddenly wonder what it would have been like to serve with him, instead of Lore. "We will be assembling in the Situation Room shortly. Please remain with me until then."

"As you wish," I respond, partly because he isn't my commanding officer, and partly because calling him 'sir' so soon after our tongues had been in each other's mouths seems grossly inappropriate.

The fact that I've echoed a phrase that Data is, apparently, known for, is lost on no one.

 **(+A+)**

"Captain Picard?" I'm incredulous, and justifiably so, because after four days of deliberation, I've been officially invited not just to stay in the Resistance, but to join the leadership as my father's aide, and in this, my first meeting, I've learned what the stolen 'package' really is. "You're telling me Captain Picard, Hero of the Empire, is not only alive, but has been running a Resistance cell on Vulcan all this time?"

"I realize that this news comes as a shock to you, Zoe, but there is no need to be so explosive." Data's calm rationality registers the way someone yelling back at me would not. "Please sit, and we will continue the meeting."

"Sorry," I mutter, but I settle back into the chair immediately to the left of his seat at the head of the oval conference table.

My father, bundled up and in a wheelchair, is positioned at Data's right and I catch the brief rise and fall of his eyebrow that means he's not happy with my reaction, either.

Further down the table, Alyssa leans forward. "I can't allow Miles to go on another mission for at least a week. He's recovering well, but a dead-center phaser blast isn't something you just bounce back from."

"I would prefer that Wesley also not go," one of the other members put in. I hadn't yet learned her name, but she had Bajoran features, and dark hair she typically wore held back from her face with a headband. "He's very young for so much responsibility, and he's still blaming himself for what happened."

"We all know it wasn't his fault," Alyssa said. "Unfortunately, there aren't many of us who can be risked on an assignment like this."

"Send me." I'd been thinking it for several minutes, but I finally spoke the words aloud. "You're all thinking it. I'm not really part of this community, so I don't have a job yet. I'm expendable. I served on that ship until three weeks ago."

I see my father squeeze his eyes closed, and I have to look away from his face. We've only just been reunited, and I don't want to leave, knowing I may never see him again, but I really am the best option for this task.

"Pigeon, please…" my father begins, but then he falls silent, and looks to Data for intercession.

But the thoughtful android doesn't support the man whose vision he's kept alive for the better part of a decade. Instead he touches my leg under the table – we haven't slept together, yet, but I'm still sharing his quarters, and the lovely kisses have only been growing in frequency, duration, and intensity – and whispers, "I am sorry," into my ear. Then he addresses my father. "Maestro, I dislike being in opposition with your wishes, but Zoe is correct. She is the best person to board the _Enterprise_ , make contact with the Fifth Column, and solicit their aid in retrieving Captain Picard and bringing him here."

I realize with a start that Data's apology referred not just to the fact that I am being sent back to the place I least wish to be, but that there is a real possibility that my father will not live to see my return.

"She'll need backup," the Bajoran woman points out. "We've got limited personnel right now, and –"

"I will go with her." Data's statement is uttered in the same tone he might have used to say, "I like toast."

"Begging your pardon, Data, but with the maestro so ill, is that wise?" _Ro! Her name is Ro Laren!_ Ro's question isn't meant with malice, I can tell, only concern.

"I believe the maestro can handle things in my absence with your assistance, Laren, as well as that of the rest of the council. This must be a 'surgical strike' with minimal exposure."

The Bajoran woman is silent for a moment, but then she nodded. "Okay."

Data glances around the table, seeking assent from everyone there. Alyssa, my father, the other two members of the group – all give their approval, and I realize that in agreeing to our idea, they are not merely supporting the friend and colleague, but choosing to trust me.

I resolve to be worthy of all of them, but especially my father and Data.

"Very good. Zoe and I will undertake preparations. We will meet again when we have determined our optimal departure date."

The group adjourns at that point. Data and I lingering to the end, so we can escort my father to his rooms, and get him settled into bed, but on her way out, Alyssa touches my shoulder. "Have lunch with me tomorrow," the older woman invites.

I accept her invitation with a nod and a smile, but I suspect _this_ lunch will be more than just a friendly meal.

A few minutes later, sitting on the edge of my father's bed, I am confronted _again_ with the knowledge that he isn't just fragile and broken, he's _old._ If Data hadn't convinced me to come here, I'd have spent the rest of my life thinking he was already dead, and he'd have died without family present.

No, that's not precisely true. Data has become family to my father. I think that's part of why he feels like family to me.

I can tell the men in the room have noticed my introspection because the android who has been occupying my thoughts so much lately touches me on the shoulder. "Zoe, it is late. We should allow the maestro to get his rest."

I nod, then lean forward to kiss my father's cheek. "Dad…" I begin, meaning to explain why it's so essential that I prove my worth to this community of his, why I _must_ help.

But he lifts his hand to my hair, and pats the back of my head the best he can. "Be safe, Pigeon. Trust Data. He'll bring you home."

I glance at the android, knowing he can't – or won't – lie about this. A part of me wants him to make the promise my father expects. The part of me that understands things like cost vs. benefit and return of investment, and the rudiments, at least, of military strategy, knows he cannot, will not make a promise he can't keep.

"I promise to try, Maestro," comes the quiet affirmation. We all know it's the best he can offer.

On the walk back to our – _Data's_ – rooms his hand doesn't go to the small of my back. Instead, it reaches for mine, twining our fingers together the way I had in the elevator. It's not a grand gesture, but I understand it, and respond by squeezing slightly.

 **(+A+)**

"Captain Riker is dangerous when it comes to interpersonal relationships for the same reason he's dangerous in combat: he's cocky and reckless – unpredictable. He thinks the best use of any rulebook is to tell you what _not_ to do."

For three days, Data and I, sometimes with the involvement of others, but mostly on our own, have been analyzing everything we – and especially _I –_ know about the current complement of the _Enterprise._ This time that session was taking place after dinner. "His security chief is a man named Reg Barclay. He presents himself as his shy, stammering, affable guy, but the reality is that there's a ruthless brain hidden behind his act. The biggest problem with them accepting me back onto the ship any way but as a prisoner or in a body bag is Deanna Troi."

"I am not familiar with an officer by that name." Data had long-since hacked his way into Starfleet's database and accessed the current crew roster of my former ship.

"That would be because she isn't an officer. When… when we talk about her, we call her The Counselor. I think she actually does have some kind of psych degree, but I'm not sure. What I'm certain of is that she's a telepath, all or part Betazoid, and five minutes with her is worse than fifteen in the agony booth."

"You sound as though you are speaking from experience."

"I am." His yellow eyes widen in surprise. "It's standard procedure for new crew."

"But you are only a cadet."

"Didn't seem to matter. As soon as I was aboard, I was sent to meet The Counselor. She spends the first couple minutes just chatting, offering cocoa – she has ruined the innocence of hot chocolate for me – and smiling, and then, just when you're thinking that maybe this isn't as bad as what you heard – that maybe scaring people about The Counselor is just a kind of welcome-aboard hazing – she fixes those fathomless black eyes on you, and it's like your mind is being rolled. I mean, I've experienced Vulcan mind-melds, but this… this was the agony booth cranked up to a million, and she actually makes you want more."

"She sifts through your memories?"

"Feelings first. Are you afraid of anything? Are you hiding anything? Then she goes for memories. Which means we're going to have to create something a lot less innocent than cuddling on your couch and playing the piano in the library."

I can tell that Data is way ahead of me. "You will have to be injured when you return to the ship," he states, his voice flat, resigned.

"And I'm guessing you're the one who's going to have to do it."

"I have no wish to cause you pain," he tells me, and I feel the weight of his words. "I have been the instrument of others' pain. It is difficult for me to do such things."

The mood has shifted from professional to personal. "You remember every one of them, don't you?" I asked softly. "Every person you couldn't save, every person you were forced to fire on in the name of duty."

His answer was a succinct, "Yes."

We are both sitting at his computer console, but now I get up and hug him from behind. "I know whatever injuries you're going to have to inflict on me won't be _meant_ ," I tell him. "I trust you to make it look convincing with the minimum pain necessary, and I hate that you'll have to."

He lifts his hands to cover mine where they rest, crossed over his chest. "As an officer, and as a member of the Resistance, I have had to send people into life-threatening situations. I am sure you have surmised that you may not survive this."

"I know," I say."

"If we had another option, I would exercise it."

"I know," I repeat, in a slightly different tone.

"I cannot explain _why_ , but sending you back to the _Enterprise_ seems… different… than when I have had to assign others to equally dangerous tasks."

"It's because I've become more than a task to you, I think."

"That is true," he agrees.

I release my embrace, sliding my hands from beneath his. "I want to ask you something, but it's a little awkward."

I step back at the same time that Data spins his chair to face me. "You may ask me anything, Zoe," he tells me, his face open and guileless.

"Are we delaying the mission because you don't know the location of the _Enterprise_ , or because you want to see how my father does, or…" I hesitate for just a second or so. "… or because of whatever's going on between us?"

For a moment, I'm afraid I've misjudged the latter. Yes, I've been living with him since he brought me here. Yes, we've been growing closer by the day. Yes, we've been sharing increasingly heated make-out sessions on his couch for days. But that doesn't mean there's _more_.

Data's yellow eyes meet mine and he holds my gaze. We're not touching, but I feel wrapped in heat. "I have been tracking the _Enterprise_ for thirty-seven hours, six minutes, seventeen point three seconds," he shares. "And while it is true that the maestro does not have much time left, Alyssa and I hoped he would rally, that he would be able to get through you leaving without – " He stops abruptly. He doesn't need to say _without it killing him_ because we both know the truth of my father's frailty.

"So, it's about Dad, then?"

"In part. It is also…" I see him swallow reflexively, and marvel at how much less 'machine-like' he seems when compared to Lore. "It is also about us. I have participated in three 'one night stands' in my life. From the first, I learned that I am fully functional, sexually. From the second, I learned that I have no desire to be with a person who merely wishes to… to 'fuck a robot.'"

The harshness of the language from this usually gentle man startles me. I flinch, and I see him notice that I do.

"And the third?" I ask, managing to keep my voice even.

"The next morning, she told me that as far as she was concerned 'it never happened.' Since then, I have realized that I am, quite literally, 'not wired' for such experiences. I find them to be distasteful." His gaze is still locked with mine. "I do not want a 'one night stand' with you, Zoe."

"And you're concerned that it will be, because I might not survive this mission." It's not a question.

He answers anyway. "Yes."

"Are we leaving tomorrow?"

"No. It will likely be another three days before I have completed the tasks that must be done before we leave."

"Would you mind if I have dinner with my father without you, tonight?" In the weeks I've been sharing space with him, Data has become accustomed to my abrupt changes of mood and tone.

"If that is what you wish, I will remain here."

I step closer and lean over his chair, so I can kiss him. "I'm not trying to upset the routine we've fallen into. I just… I need to see my father alone tonight."

When he responds with "I understand," I am certain that he does.

 **(+A+)**

"Pigeon, is something wrong? You and Data usually join me together." My father didn't miss a thing, even in his weakened condition.

"Nothing's wrong, I just wanted you all to myself tonight." He's been settled into a wing chair in his room, and I'm in a similar chair across the table from him. His hands shake when he uses his fork, but only a little. "Actually, I wanted to ask you about Data…"

"You want to know if I approve of the two of you as a couple?"

Nope, he _really_ didn't miss a thing.

"Dad!"

"I've seen the way you look at him. I've seen how protective he's been of you since the moment you arrived. And I know the fact that he's an android isn't an issue for you."

"Sometimes, I forget he's technically a machine," I confess. I never, I realize, forgot that with Lore. His responses were always so calculated. Measured. Whether it was sex or pain, there was always cool logic at work.

"You're not using him to replace the lover you left behind?"

"I wouldn't do that, Dad." I can't help the note of indignation that colors my protest, but I take a breath and continue in a more level tone. "Lore is Lore. It was thrilling, being with him, for the first five minutes or so." I'm exaggerating, of course, but my father will understand that. "I was his lover, but I was never his partner. It was about politics. And power." Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined chatting with my father about my sex life.

But Dad is unfazed. "And Data?"

"I like him," I say. "I like the way he treats you. He's been kind and respectful to me, when he didn't have to be. He's thoughtful and caring and… and it's too soon to do anything but begin to explore, but…"

"But you think he could be a partner." Like me, like Data, my father could make statements where other people would ask questions.

"I… yes. Dad, he… he feels like home." I pause. Take a breath. Shift tones. "But the reality is that I might not have the chance to explore things with him." I feel tears forming in my eyes, and I dab at them with my napkin. "There's never enough time. Never a moment to breathe and just _be._ And I have to go _back…_ and I'm terrified."

"Don't be."

"Dad?"

"We all know the risk you're facing. _You_ know that Data and Alyssa are going to do everything to ensure you have a way out. Being terrified is the easy reaction, but it's wasted energy. Be cautious, Pigeon, and be the brave young woman I know you can be. But don't be terrified. Just as you choose how to interpret a song, you choose your reaction."

I cock my head while my father is talking – and I see him notice, and smile faintly, then go on. It's one of the reasons he calls me 'pigeon.' The others include my tendency to babble ( _Oh, Zoe, she's just cooing all the time),_ and my habit of being underfoot all the time when I was little.

"You want me to just choose not to be terrified?" I ask.

"Yes, Pigeon. Can you do it?"

I think about it for a moment before I say. "I can try."

It's enough. It must be.

We finish our meal and then we chat for a while longer, sharing memories. It's bittersweet. Even if I survive returning to the _Enterprise_ , he might not be alive when I come back – come _home_.

I get him settled into bed, and remember all the times our positions were reversed. "Do you remember playing me the different parts of Handel's Water Music to make me sleep?"

"You always wanted to play along," he recalls. "I bought you a one-fourth scale cello when you were four."

"If the Empire hadn't… changed… if you hadn't been taken away, if they hadn't closed all the conservatories… would I have been good enough to make it?"

"I have no doubt."

"Someday," I vow, "I'm going to live in a place where there's fresh air and open ocean, and everything is full of music and light and laughter."

My father pulls me as close as he can, and kisses my forehead. "Go be with Data, Pigeon."

I turn my face away so he can't see my tears.

 **(+A+)**

Data isn't in his rooms when I return, which is good, because I know if he sees that I've been crying, he'll try to discuss it with me. In the almost-month I've been sharing quarters with him, he's proven himself to be a good listener and a supportive friend. In another world, maybe we'd have met at one of Dad's concerts and started dating like normal people.

Or maybe we'd have been assigned to the same ship, though, in that other world, the one that doesn't actually exist, I'm pretty sure I'd never have gone to the Academy or joined the Empire's Starfleet.

The t-shirt I've borrowed from him this week – red this time – is folded on the bed, and I take the opportunity to wash my face, brush my teeth, and change while I have actual alone-time.

I return to the main room, and replicate a cup of mint tea, which I bring to the couch. Spot appears from nowhere and jumps up to join me. Apparently, she doesn't like most people. Data suspects she approves of me because I smell like my father, and she likes him.

I'm still sitting there, cuddling the cat between sips of tea, when Data returns. He's carrying something that looks a little like the old-style phaser pistols, rather than the mouse-shaped Mark IV's.

"So, you're just gonna shoot me and be done with it all?" I ask, making my tone wry. My focus is on the object in his hand.

"Yes," he answers. "In a manner of speaking. Alyssa and I have worked out how to provide you with an emergency recall system."

"Recall? Like a communicator?"

"Of a sort. This one will emit a signal only."

He seems to be hedging, and when I lift my gaze to his face, he avoids looking directly at me. "What aren't you telling me?"

"To guarantee that you will have it with you when you need it, it must be… attached… to your body."

"Attached?"

"Alyssa suggested a piercing in your navel."

I shake my head. "That won't work. Captain Riker often requires women to wear the crop-top uniforms. Visible jewelry is against regulations."

"That was my concern as well. Therefore, I suggested an alternate location."

"Oh?" There were only two places I could think of that such a thing wouldn't be visible.

"I will have to implant it in your tongue."

He's so tentative and serious that laughter - real laughter – comes bubbling out of me. "A tongue piercing is fine, Data. I trust you to do it without mangling anything."

"I will install it as soon as you are ready."

"Can it wait until tomorrow morning?" I ask.

"If you wish, but Alyssa believes the more time you have to become acclimated, the better."

I nod, and move Spot off my lap. I leave the couch and step toward him, taking the piercing gun – for I now understand that's what he's been holding – and placing it on the dining table. "I'm pretty good at adapting to new situations," I tell him. "I'll be fine. Is it still three days before we leave?"

"Yes."

"Three nights, too?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Because three nights isn't a one-night stand, Data. It's… it's a beginning. Or maybe it's a promise – I'm not sure – but don't we owe it to ourselves to find out?" I pause, and then add, softly, but not at all plaintively, "I'd really like to find out."

Data closes the gap between us in one purposeful stride, and his lips are on mine before I even have time to process. The kisses we've been sharing for the past several days pale in comparison to the way he's kissing me now. He pulls me close against his body, so I can feel the subtle _thrum_ of his internal systems, and it's both familiar to me but also different – unique to him – and I'm thrown for a moment, because even though his hands are laced behind the small of my back, I'm not being restrained, just embraced.

I can't remember the last time I felt like I was in an equal partnership with a lover.

I'm not sure I ever have.

"So, is that a 'yes' then?" I try for a wry tone, but I choke a little.

"It is."

I finally touch him, sliding my hands up his body. I flatten my hands against his chest, and exist within the circle of his arms for a moment. Then I keep going, until my fingertips meet at the back of his neck. I stretch up for another kiss, but first I whisper against his lips, "Take me to bed."

Trust an android to be literal. He lifts me into his arms, and carries me through the doorway into the room where I've been sleeping for almost a month. He sets me down next to the bed, and as soon as my feet touch the floor, I'm tugging at his shirt (red, long-sleeved), tugging to untuck it from his pants (dark olive, cargo. I'm fascinated by the many pockets).

When that expanse of gold is revealed to me I freeze for a moment, because physically he's so very like Lore. I half-expect to be pushed down to my knees, or to be yanked around by my hair.

Instead, his hand smooths my hair away from my face, and his voice – Data's voice – calls me back to the present. "Zoe? Are you alright?"

I look into his face, and suddenly, I need him to understand that I'm here with him in this moment because I want to be, not for any other reason. "You know, you're not a replacement or a rebound, right?" I ask.

"You are referring to my brother?"

"No. I'm referring to us. You're not a substitute. This isn't an experiment. And I'm never going to tell you that it never happened."

Data sits on the bed, and tugs my hand gently, a silent invitation for me to join him. I do so, and we end up so close that our thighs are touching. Methodically, he removes his shoes and socks while he speaks, his tone serious. "We have discussed the risk involved with your return to the _Enterprise_. I understand that you are likely to be anxious about the task you will be undertaking. I also understand that it is natural for humanoids to seek connection before beginning such assignments."

"That's true, but –"

He lowers his head slightly, and lifts his eyebrows. With a hint of an encouraging nod he requests, "Please allow me to finish?"

"Sorry. Go ahead."

"If I believed that you were merely seeking such a connection with me, I would be honored to be your choice. However, I do not believe this… shift… in our relationship is only that. Zoe, we have already discussed the fact that our attraction is mutual. I have agreed with you that to not explore that further would be a waste of the time we _do_ have. Please accept that we have both had sub-optimal relationships in the past, and let them remain there. Perhaps together we can discover what a healthy relationship can offer."

I feel my lips stretch into a warm smile. "You have a remarkable way of putting me at ease, Data," I say, and kiss him, letting his comforting cashew (it's definitely cashew, not almond) essence flood my mouth.

We're still kissing as we move so that we're lying face to face. "You're overdressed," I say, tugging playfully at the fastening to those intriguing cargo pants. "Can we get rid of these?"

"As you wish," he tells me. I move away to give him room to undress – he pulls his underwear off with the pants (android efficiency at work) and then I resume my position. "May I remove this," he asks, sliding one of his hands down my side to the hem of my (his) t-shirt. His hand continues down my thigh, then back up to rest on my backside. "And these?" he asks, tweaking the elastic of the panties I'm wearing.

I'm no longer accustomed to being _asked_ about such things, but I smile and answer, "Of course."

Seconds later, skin to skin, the hand that's between us reaches for my breast. "May I?" Data asks.

"You can do anything that doesn't involve teeth," I say. "I'm not… no pain. Maybe someday, I'll be willing to explore that again… but…"

"I understand," he says, and this time those words are a balm.

Long, elegant, gold fingers roll my nipples and I whimper softly, because it feels so good. My own hand, the one I'm not half leaning on, slides between our bodies to cup his testicles, to roll them as tenderly as Data's treating my breasts, and then to caress the length of his cock.

We shift positions slightly, and Data replaces his fingers with his mouth. He respects my request for no teeth, simply teasing my nipple with lips and tongue. His hand traces a downward journey, nudging my arm slightly to make room. He skims my belly, and rests his palm against my pubic mound before asking if he can touch me that way, and when I say yes, when his fingers enter me to tease and coax, a bubble of laughter rises up. "I'm sorry," I say.

"Do not be," he counters. "Zoe, if I can give you pleasure, you must allow yourself to experience it. Your laughter is not mockery, but a sign of joy. Please do not conceal it from me."

I want to point out that he doesn't laugh, that his emotions are often barely detectable, but that's a conversation for later. I kiss him again, smiling against his mouth, and his own lips quirk into a matching expression. "I want you," I tell him. "All of you… inside me. Please?"

"Lift your leg," he requests, and when I do, he moves so that his legs are between mine, so that we're face to face when he enters me with his cock. I'm not sure if he somehow knew that I needed an equitable exchange this first time together, or if _he_ needed it, but I appreciate it either way.

He's gentle when he pushes inside me, gentle but sure, and I gasp slightly because we seem to fit together so well. "Are you alright?" he asks. I'm learning that this is just who he is: thoughtful. Caring.

"More than," I say. "God…"

"Goddess," he counters, and I recognize that he's both teasing me and also assuring me that he's enjoying this experience as much as I am. Softly, he adds, "Zoe…" and his use of my name sends shivers through me that are almost as good as the physical sensations of his thrusts, of his hands on my skin, on my clit, and my hands on him, stroking, touching, moving.

I'm so caught up in just _feeling_ that I'm not entirely sure what Data does with the hand that's still giving me attention, but when I'm close to climax he does something that's almost pressure and not quite a tickle and I want to scream in ecstasy, but I'm afraid people will hear, so I bury my face in his neck and suck to keep from making noise.

He isn't sweaty, like I am, but his skin has a fainter version of the same cashew flavor that his kisses do, and as his own completion floods into me, I wonder if that tastes the same.

It's not until the aftershocks stop moving through my body that we release each other. He is calm, still, almost wary, and I'm almost afraid that if I speak, I'll spook him, but, inexplicably, I start to cry.

"Zoe, have I hurt you? Are you alright?" The alarm in Data's voice is unmistakable.

"You didn't hurt me, I just… I just…" I don't even know how to explain, instead, I just press a gentle kiss to his chest, and then another to his lips. "Thank you," I tell him. I yawn, because it's been an intensely emotional day, and I'm suddenly exhausted. "Please don't be offended, but I think I need to sleep now."

"I am not offended," he assures me. "I will leave you to your rest." He begins to move away from me, and I put out a hand to stop him.

"Please don't."

"Zoe?"

"I don't want to keep you from whatever work you've been doing while I've slept for the last month, but, could you stay?"

"I have engaged a sleep protocol from time to time," Data responds. "It has never provided a noticeable benefit, but I do not object to attempting it again, if my presence provides you comfort."

We move so that we're under the covers, and after a few minutes of quiet conversation – I ask if Data can be roused from his sleep-state, and he promises that yes, he can – I end up with my head on his chest and his arm around me, the thrum of his internal systems lulling me to sleep.

* * *

 **Notes:** Apparently, I suck at writing _short_ stories. This chapter comes in two parts (I promise it won't be another month for the second half) and then there's an epilogue after that. As a reminder, the poem used in the chapter titles is "Broken Mirror," by Tamara Moir.


	6. Bloodied Wall, Broken Mirror - Part II

**Bloodied Wall, Broken Mirror – Part II**

 _A bloodied wall_

 _A broken mirror..._

Three days of relative bliss were not enough. Our pattern remained the same, except that Data was not merely letting me stay in his quarters, but sharing his bed with me at night. His bed, and his body.

Actually, it was three days of relative bliss at home followed by two days in a shuttle-craft. I hadn't expected Data to put the ship on autopilot so we could make love on spread-out sleeping bags in the main compartment but he has done so for both nights of our journey, and we've just completed some 'field testing' of my new tongue stud, acting on my sharing with him that such adornments are supposed to make fellatio more stimulating. The result?

"Twenty-three point six-three-seven percent more… ah… intense…. Zoe."

But everything we do is tainted by the ticking clock. This is a mission, not a holiday.

Still, Data half-cradles me as we lie face-to-face in our makeshift bed, and we share small confidences. "I did not realize how fulfilling a truly intimate relationship could be, Zoe," he tells me. "I find that I am enjoying, not just sex with you, but these post-coital conversations."

I smile and lift my hand to tease his hair, and caress his face. "It's called 'pillow-talk,' Data, and I like it too." I take a breath, and cuddle slightly closer. "Listen, I'm not ready to declare undying love for you, or anything, but… if I make it through this, if I make it back… I'd really like to see where this – us – where it goes."

He's quiet, and for a moment I worry I've overstepped, or read too much into things. "I believe I can give you something that may help you."

"Oh?"

"Yes." He takes my hand and guides it to the small of his back. With his hand over mine, he presses carefully. "Do you feel that?"

I have seen Data's naked back enough to know that there's nothing there I would be able to _see,_ and yet I _feel_ something like an indented rocker-switch, and I say so. "What is it?"

"It is a power switch," he answers. His body stiffens against mine, as if he's wary of my response, but he continues. "Lore has one in the same location."

I slide my hand from under his, moving it to rest atop his hip, as I say, "Thank you for trusting me with this." Unspoken is my promise not to reveal it to others, but I'm sure he knows I would never do such a thing.

He responds by kissing me, and then he uses his hands, his mouth, and his cock to make sure I'm thoroughly satisfied and pleasantly exhausted.

I know that his behavior is a sign either that he's as anxious as I am (I'm trying to follow my father's advice to not let terror take hold), or that he's trying to build pleasant memories for me to hold onto.

Or maybe they're for him to hold onto, as well, because on the morning of the third day he has to hurt me – physically – causing, then partially healing, layers of bruises to my ribs, hips, chest, arms, legs, and face, including a rather impressive blackening of my right eye. However much physical pain I feel, though, I can see that each blow is affecting _him_ to the core of his soul.

When he is finished - when I look like I've been beaten and tortured over and over - he gathers me into his arms as gently as he can, and just holds me and whispers apologies into my hair.

Late that night, when we arrive in orbit at a once-thriving pleasure world known as Sherman's Planet, I'm tucked into an escape pod and sent toward the _Enterprise._

 **(+A+)**

The hatch on my escape pod opens and I find myself blinking into the too-bright light of the _Enterprise_ shuttle bay. I know there are officers there, waiting to assess, or even just kill me, but I'm achy and sore from all the bruises, and from being in the pod for two days, so I hesitate before I move.

Two guards step forward and grab my arms, dragging me out of the vessel.

"Identify yourself!" The voice comes from the shadows, and it's familiar, but I can't quite place it.

"Harris, Zoe L. Cadet, second year. Service number…" I give the alphanumeric code that represents _me_ , and then I'm silent.

"Release her!"

As soon as they let go of my arms I fall to my knees on the deck. I close my eyes and wait for the sting of an agonizer, or the heat of a phaser, but nothing comes. Instead, I hear the sound of booted feet walking toward me. I open my eyes and see them come just inside my peripheral vision. The owner of the boots crouches next to me, and a smooth voice whispers in my ear, "Hello, Lover. Welcome home."

"Lore."

"It would appear that the report of your death was grossly inaccurate."

"Evidently" Short answers are my best defense right now.

"Can you walk?" He sounds almost as gentle as Data when he asks that question. _Almost_. Every word Lore utters comes out as if it's on the edge of a knife-blade.

I give a barely perceptible nod. "I think so."

"Very well." In the louder tone he'd been using moments ago, he orders, "On your feet, Cadet." He wraps his hands around my biceps -his left going behind my back to meet my left arm, his right on my right arm. The guards probably believe he's treating me like a suspect or a prisoner, but, really, he's supporting most of my weight. I feel myself cringing at his touch and have to force myself to let him haul me to my feet in what passes as helpful for him.

"I will escort her from here. You are dismissed."

In the turbo-lift, Lore turns me so he can peer into my face. His eyes burn like cold fire, and his beard and mustache seem like tiny wires instead of just hair, and I feel like he can tell that my loyalties have shifted, that I'm not his anymore, that maybe I never was. When he presses a kiss to my lips, I'm surprised, partly because he's never, _ever_ , demonstrative outside of quarters and partly because I can't imagine _anyone_ kissing me in my bruised and battered state.

I recall one of the many conversations I had with Data on the shuttle ride to Sherman's Planet. _"You may have to do things you dislike, Zoe, when you return to your ship."_

 _"Be with Lore, you mean."_

 _"Very likely."_

 _"How can you… after the past few days, how can you just blithely send me back to his bed?"_

 _"I am not blithe, Zoe. If there were another option, I would not be sending you back at all, but there is not."_

 _"And if I make it through… will you still want me? I'll be… Data, I'll be tainted."_

 _"No. You are not tainted now, nor will you be then. You are strong, and brave, and I am fortunate to have met you, Zoe Harris."_

I squeeze my eyes shut. Let Lore think my eyes are wet from pain, or from relief at being 'home.'

He doesn't miss that I winced. "Did it hurt, Lover, when I kissed you?"

Lying would get me nowhere. "Yes."

"I thought you liked pain." His voice is a breath in my ear. Is he seriously trying to seduce me when I can barely walk?

"There's pain and there's _pain_ ," I say.

"But, Lover, you're so beautiful wearing bruises. I wish I'd given them to you. Maybe another time. Who took you?"

Even though I was expecting such a question it takes me a few seconds to switch gears. "The Resistance," I answer lowering my eyes, so he'll think I'm ashamed I got caught. "Your brother is working for them; did you know?"

"Data? Hmm. I thought he'd hidden away somewhere to paint and play music for the next couple centuries like the coward he is."

 _Data's_ _ **not**_ _a coward,_ I think. But what I say is. "He was pretending to be you, on the starbase. I accused him of stealing a Starfleet uniform, but he said he was in the 'fleet once. I figured out who he was fairly quickly, but by then he'd already drugged me. I woke up in their facility, but I don't know how long we traveled or in which direction, or where it's located, except that it was underground."

He peers into my face, and then he grabs my hair, yanking my head back. He licks my throat, and then forces his tongue inside my mouth in a mockery of a kiss. The pressure of his mouth on my split lip hurts. The acid in his saliva burns the still-healing piercing in my tongue, but if I cry out he'll know it's fresh. Besides, he wants me to scream.

Well, even Commander Lore doesn't _always_ get what he wants.

I make myself respond to his kiss, but I feel numb inside.

"When did you pierce your tongue?" The question is asked casually. Too casually?

I manage a smile, though that hurts, too. "Do you like it? I had it done as soon as I got to the starbase. It was meant to be a sort of anniversary gift for you." I make my voice as soft and kittenish as I can, thinking _play the part, Zoe_. "It's supposed to enhance your pleasure when I go down on you."

Apparently, he hasn't actually replaced me in his bed yet, because his yellow eyes gleam with anticipation. "Oh, lover, I _have_ missed you."

"And yet, you're not taking me to your quarters."

"You know it's not that easy. You were gone for a month; we thought you'd been killed in the bombing – that was nice work, by the way – I should have recognized android precision. If you hadn't been broadcasting your ID, we'd have simply blasted your pod to nothing." He says it as if he's talking about the weather. "So, you'll have to meet with Deanna, and then we'll see about reinstating your commission."

"I don't have a commission; I'm only a second-year cadet."

"Not any more. Your mother pulled strings. Had you granted a field commission – it's why she wanted you home, you know."

"Actually, I didn't. We don't really chat. All I knew was that her yacht was supposed to meet me."

"Ah."

"What happens if Deanna doesn't like what I have to say?"

"You know what happens, Sweetheart." He bites off the two t's in that word so it's not the slightest bit affectionate. "Agony booth until she's satisfied… or I am."

I pray to whatever gods who will listen that I can convince The Counselor that I was an unwilling captive, or, failing that, that I can survive long enough to complete my assignment.

The turbo-lift stops on Deck Two, and Lore leads me out by the arms, though now it's not because I need help, it's because he really is treating me like a prisoner.

 **(+A+)**

Most of my encounters with the captain's primary partner, Deanna Troi, have been innocent. Or at least, fairly innocuous. We've shared a table in the mess a couple of times. There've been some post-battle ragers where we both attended. This is the first time that I've faced her as The Counselor, and I know, now, why most of my crewmates would choose fifteen minutes in the agony booth over five minutes with her.

"Let's go over it again," she coaxes, her voice low and dangerous. "You went to one of the retail sectors of the starbase…"

"I went to a body piercing parlor. I knew I had time, and I'd been considering getting pierced as a gift for Lore." I make my tone regretful. "I missed our seven-month anniversary." The android who was my lover for six months isn't in the room, but I know he's watch and listening, and I need to maintain the appearance that I'm still his partner, at least in this room.

"Why your tongue?"

"Why not?" I manage to meet her black eyes for almost three full seconds before the pressure in my head makes me turn away.

"That's not an acceptable answer, Cadet." She leans forward, and suddenly the pressure becomes real pain, and I feel like I can't breathe.

"Because a navel ring would show! Visible jewelry is against dress code." I give her the same explanation I'd given Data when we chose the location of my jewelry. "And I'm not into offering strangers full frontal nudity."

"When did Data find you?"

"I was about to go into a bar. I wanted… I wanted a burger and a beer. Lore dislikes it when I eat meat around him, but I was supposed to be going home."

"And what did he say?" Her questions seem so normal, but there's a psychic _push_ beneath them that make my brain feel itchy.

"He tried to get me to help him with some mission in exchange for seeing my father, but Dad's been dead for almost a decade. Said if I went with him I'd get to spend time with my father and then they'd ask me to help them with something."

"But you refused." I'd told her all of this before, so she knew I hadn't refused outright.

"I asked what he'd do if I refused and he said he had ways to enforce my cooperation. I let him think I was agreeing while I finished my meal, but I started feeling fuzzy before my beer was even half-gone…" I tried to focus on the feeling of being sedated, and how my brain had been all muddled. "And then we were in a shuttle and there was tea but it tasted weird – wrong – and then there were voices and we were at the Resistance… I don't know if it was headquarters."

We had been going around and around in circles for I-don't-know-how-long, and I was tired and hungry, and had to pee, and I was losing my control.

"Tell me what it was like, staying there. Was your father there?"

"My father is dead," I say. It might be true. I hope it's not. "He was arrested when I was twelve."

She leaves her chair and circles mine in the otherwise empty room. Crouching in front of me, she soothes, "Zoe – may I call you Zoe? You're only a cadet, you're very young. No one will hold it against you if you believed you'd see your father again."

"I didn't cooperate," I insist. "He hit me… and he drugged me, and he looked so much like Lore, and I…"

"You slept with him…"

"I didn't have a choice." I am crying now, from the pressure in my head, and then it feels like I'm looking out of her eyes and mine at the same time - like I'm watching myself from someone else's point of view - and I can tell she's sifting through my memories, my thoughts: Anger at my father for lying to me, realizing he really is dying, Data kissing me, Data hitting me, my head being fuzzy from the sedative he gave me on the shuttle… it goes on.

And then it stops.

Everything just… stops.

I feel cool deck plating against my cheek, and stinging in my hands and knees.

Everything goes black.

When the blackness recedes, I realize that I'm in a bio-bed in sickbay, and there are machines beeping all around me. I struggle to sit up as my eyes adjust to the dimmed lighting. I have no idea what time it is, no idea how long I've been there, no idea if I'm a patient or a prisoner or both.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and am about to slide to the deck when one of the medical officers – an older woman named Pulaski, I think – appears at my side. "Nice try, Cadet Harris, but you're going to be under my care for a while yet."

"What happened?"

"Apparently you managed to survive a deep mind probe with your brain intact, but you lost consciousness in the process."

"I hit my head, I think."

"You did, but you managed not to get a concussion, so apparently you are as hard-headed as Commander Lore says."

"Lore's here?"

"He's on the bridge, but he asked me to call him as soon as you were awake." There's a hint of warmth in her blue eyes, and the lines of her face flash me a taut smile. "If you want to take a little time to regroup, I can delay the comm-call, but you have to do something for me, first."

"What's that?"

"Eat something. Drink something."

"I think I can manage that."

I know my resistance is low, that my resources are depleted, because I trust her, and I don't know why. "Did they tell you why The Counselor rolled my mind?"

Her expression flashes sympathy before she schools it into something appropriately neutral. "I heard you were captured by the Resistance. Did you escape?"

"Kind of," I said. "They decided I was useless and were going to leave me at Sherman's Planet but I stole an escape pod."

"Bright of you. Being marooned at Sherman's would be tough for anyone, but for a young woman…" she shakes her head. "Young folk like you have no business being in space and less business being in relationships with line officers. Stay there, I'll get you a tray."

She disappears for a few minutes only to return with a tray holding some kind of vegetable soup, some soft bread, and a glass of water. "Thank you," I manage. "Did Lor – did Commander Lore happen to mention what he was planning to do with me, after you call him?"

"He's under orders to take you to quarters and ensure that you rest. You're to be off-duty for three days and then we'll follow up and see how you are." She hesitates as if she's not sure she should be giving me the next bit of information. "You may not be aware that your personal quarters were assigned to another while you were gone. If you're not comfortable going home with Lore, I can keep you here. Or…" she shrugs… "I can try."

"You wouldn't happen to know who he's been… with… while I was… away?" I can't think of a more delicate way to ask.

"No one."

I can't help but stare at her. "No one?"

"I'm not sure what the status of your relationship is Harris, but, he seems to have a genuine affection for you. At least, as much as he's capable of."

This information rocks me. My assignment was easier when I assumed I was merely the latest in a line of convenient fuck-buddies. Now, though… knowing that in some twisted way Lore actually cares about me… I don't want to be with him. But aside from the edgy sex and his need to exert control, he's never been unkind to me. "Thank you," I say, my voice soft. "For the food and the information."

"I'll call Lore," she says, but she doesn't immediately tap her comm-badge. Instead, she steps into my personal space and says, "Look. I may be over-reacting, but if you were my daughter, I'd want to know someone was looking out for you. If things get bad – if Lore decides to punish you for your escape - you call for me and say you have a headache here." She points to the back of her head, where someone might be hit with a club.

"A headache?"

"It's a common side effect of being mind-rolled by a Betazoid," she shares.

"A headache," I repeat, making it a statement this time. I watch her face and realize that I have power here. If I'm offended by her offer, I could have her… I shudder at the thought. "A headache," I say again, accepting her overture. "Got it. Thank you."

 **(+A+)**

I expect Lore to demand sex immediately – it's his usual m. o., after all, but he surprises me by sending me to his bed just to sleep. "I want you well-rested before we play, kitten," he tells me. I can't help the sidelong glance I give him. In all the time I've known him, he's only ever called me 'lover' when we're alone. Never anything else.

He gives me three days to rest and recover. I'm not back on the duty roster… I have the distinct feeling they're not sure what to do with me. I haven't yet been requested to appear before the captain, nor have I heard from my mother. I wonder if they've bothered to contact her. I wonder if _I_ should contact her.

The first night, I succumb to sleep as soon as Lore sends me to bed. The second night, I wake to find that he's engaged his dream program. Androids, or at least Lore, don't show evidence of REM sleep when they're dreaming, but when he's using that program he becomes preternaturally still, his respiration shallows, and even my mouth on his cock doesn't rouse him (or _arouse_ him, for that matter) – I know because I tried more than once… when our relationship was new. Before pain was a usual element instead of a rare one. Before acid became the norm. _He was grooming me_ , I realize, and the thought makes me shiver.

His dream program runs for six hours, and I was in bed for about ninety minutes before he joined me. We're sharing the bed, but he hasn't touched me, and that worries me, too. I've looked for signs that he's had someone else despite what the doc said, but I find only my left-behind belongings, brought here from my former quarters while I was gone, for reasons I have yet to consider.

I leave the bed, but I don't bother to dress. If I've misread him - if he wakes - then I'll be able to claim I had to use the bathroom, or needed a glass of water. Both are things that have pulled me from bed before.

I settle myself at Lore's workstation, and bring up the public log for the ship. These are the mission logs that everyone has access to. I use a 'dummy' login that Data coded for me before our little journey, assuming my own ID would be denied. It works, and I spend several minutes scanning the log, but there's nothing unusual. Investigation of the Starbase bombing, salvage run on another base - that's the mission where they caught the Resistance team – and the notation of intercepting an escape pod. That would be me.

As caught up on ship's business as I'm likely to get, I skim the newsfeeds. My mother, usually a media darling, is nowhere to be seen. I wonder if she's grieving for me. I wonder if she's using her grief to further her political agenda.

I check the monitors – Lore is fanatic about knowing what's going on in every corner of the ship, even more so than the security chief, a nervous man named Brackish or Broccoli or something like that – I'm usually too busy wondering how he made it into that position to remember his name.

I'm familiar with most of the feeds on display: the bridge, the corridor outside the bridge, main engineering, the entrance to sickbay, the armory, the gym, the brig. I bring up each one then restore the tiled windows to their original positions. Something is niggling at my brain – something 'off' on the display, but I can't quite place it. The last thing I do is find the duty roster for main engineering. I'm supposed to be connecting with the leader of the Fifth Column aboard the ship, and it happens to be our chief engineer.

Information acquired, I actually do use the bathroom before returning to bed. I lie in the darkness, cataloguing what I have to do, trying to figure out a plan. I'm drifting closer to sleep, when a hand closes around my throat. "Lore…" I gasp.

"You fucked him," he accuses, his voice bitter and cold. "You fucked my brother. Was it good for you, his boring, vanilla, human sex? Did he make you scream and squirm and _beg_ for satisfaction?"

I don't know how to answer him, but it doesn't matter, because I can't take in enough air to breathe. He removes his hand at the last moment, and rolls so he's on top of me. "I missed you," he tells me, his voice heavy with some tone I don't recognize from him. "I. Don't. Miss. People."

 _Shit. He actually cares. It's a sick and twisted form of caring, but… God! No!_

"I wasn't exactly on vacation," I remind him, when I can speak again. There's just enough light that I can see his eyes glittering. He presses a hard kiss onto my mouth, and I close my eyes when his mustache touches the top of my lip. _Wire_ , I think. _Acid and wire and pain. Do I want a life of that? No. No, I really don't._

But when his tongue finds my piercing, I can almost feel the connections being made in his neural net. "I want your mouth on me, Lover," he hisses into my ear, and he rolls us so that I'm on top of him, pushes me down and holds my head in place. "Do a good job, Baby."

I don't know if he notices the tears dripping onto his skin, but I wish he did. I wish they felt like acid.

Afterward, he offers to please me, and I claim exhaustion (it's not untrue). "Sleep's probably a good idea for you," he says. "You're back on the duty roster in the morning. Report to Commander LaForge for your engineering rotation at ten hundred hours."

One of my last thoughts before I go back to sleep is that I've just been ordered to report to my contact. It's either incredibly fortuitous. or Data managed to get his own message through. _I'm sorry, Data_ , I think. _I'm so sorry, but I'm doing the best I can._

It doesn't strike me until morning that there's a third reason for being assigned to engineering: it could be a setup.

 **(+A+)**

Geordi LaForge is not anything like what I imagined a fifth column contact to be. Rather than being furtive or threatening, like most of the officers and crew on this ship, he's an affable man, with dark skin and shoulder length hair sectioned into many, many braids. He also has a visual aid - he calls it a VISOR – that looks like a pair of sunglasses that wrap around the back of his head, with a lens – or at least an optical receptor – over each eye.

I want him to be my best friend after only an hour in his department. Here in engineering, people are still cautious, but they smile. There's chatter and real smiles, not just cold smirking and calculating glances. I wish I had more time to get to know him, feel him out but Data has given me a total of seven days to accomplish my task and I've already used three.

I spend my first several hours in engineering doing the kind of scut-work that cadets are typically assigned: recalibrating diagnostic instruments, wiping old data off padds, degaussing used data solids. If people are being a bit aloof toward me, I tell myself it's just that I'm new, and no one trusts easily on an Empire ship.

I'm left alone at lunch. Well, nearly alone. I remain at my station, assuming I'll be able to slip away to eat when the alpha team returns, but Commander LaForge surprises me. "Want to get your hands dirty?" he asks. "There's a circuit that needs patching, and I need another pair of hands. We have to access it from within the Jeffries Tube. You game?"

I'm not sure if he feels sorry for the previously-kidnapped cadet – I've heard people whispering about how I looked when I arrived – or if he's genuinely in need of assistance, but I leap at the chance. "Ready and willing, sir."

It's a little too positive. A little too 'light.'

He seems not to notice.

"Come on, Harris," he invites. "Let's get this done."

Inside the tube, everything changes. There _is_ a circuit to be repaired, which takes all of three minutes, and then Geordi makes a sideways move and suddenly I'm pressed against the bulkhead with a laser-tipped repair tool at my throat. "Killing me won't actually advance your career," I point out, though the words come out uneven.

He doesn't find me funny. "Truth time, Cadet." Somehow, derision sounds worse in this man's tone than it does from other people. "Are you here as Lore's spy?"

"No!" I manage to bite out the word. "I have no idea why my rotation is here. I thought I'd be sent home, or to the brig. Though it is convenient for me…"

Bad choice of words. Instead of relaxing, he tenses, pressing the point of the laser into my skin. "Killing _me_ won't help your career, either," he retorts.

Almost, I want to laugh. Instead I say. "That's _not_ what I meant. I have a message for you." I don't give him time to question the source. I just blurt, "Papa says it's time to come home."

"Papa Haydn's dead and gone," he responds giving me what passes for a level gaze through his VISOR. It's the countersign I was expecting, but it hits me hard because Papa is The Maestro. My father. And he may very well be dead and gone before I complete my mission.

"But his music lingers on," I respond, completing the passphrase.

LaForge relaxes, lowering the soldering gun. He rocks backward, settling into a low squat. "Talk to me, Harris."

Quickly, I outline the information I have – that Picard is stashed somewhere aboard the ship, and that I've been sent to get him out. I run down the instructions I was given, and then ask, "The thing is… Lore monitors every public space of the ship and most of the not-so-public ones, but there's no monitor on the brig."

"No, there wouldn't be," LaForge explains. "Don't want a record of what might go on down there."

"So, we have to get in, get back out with Picard, and get off the ship," I say. "And not get caught."

"Getting into the brig isn't that hard…" the chief engineer tells me. Off my look, he amends, "No, I don't mean one of us gets thrown in… there's an access conduit that runs behind the cells. All you have to do is open the hatch, lower the forcefield, and convince the person being held that crawling into a dark space with a stranger is a good idea."

"And keep anyone from noticing," I add.

"And that," LaForge's tone is wry. He starts to move, and then pauses staring at me. I wonder what I look like to him. "How old are you, Harris?"

"Twenty."

"God, you're a baby, Cadet. A baby and you're with Lore." He shakes his head and his braids bounce. "I don't know if I can protect you…"

"I don't expect you to," I tell him. Jeffries Tubes are as good a place as any for brutal honesty. "I chose to return," I share, "because no one else could. But I'm well aware I won't likely leave this ship again. At least, not alive."

His nod is slow, as if he's carrying the weight of what both of us are facing, just in that slow motion. "O-kay…" he almost drawls the word. "I'm going to need to think on this overnight. Figure out how we're going to do this."

 **(+A+)**

I've never been a particularly good chess player, but even I know that pawns get sacrificed, and on this mission, I am the pawn.

LaForge assigned another member of the Fifth Column, a lieutenant not much older than me, named Aquiel Unari, to assist me in entering the brig, and getting Picard out. She is Hellean, and the way her forehead nubs (proto-horns, I remember reading) twitch when she looks at the older man gives me the distinct impression that she and the chief engineer might be in a relationship. I hope she realizes that what we're doing might jeopardize that. Hell, it might jeopardize her life.

I've already managed to figure out what was 'off' about Lore's monitors. The brig wasn't on the main view, but there had been a tickler in the corner of the screen. Using his password, I logged in and saw the once legendary captain curled into a shivering ball on the bunk. In addition, I learn that he has his own cameras set up. They're not wired into the rest of the ship's power grid.

This pawn, it seems, will never make it to become queen.

Seeing him, as broken as my father, and completely isolated, only fortifies my resolve.

After LaForge brings down the forcefield, Aquiel and I and use the access tunnels to enter the brig. My string of passphrases and countersigns convinces the captain to trust us. Aquiel guides him out, and I set the charge that makes it look like Picard escaped by building a bomb out of silverware and small amounts of replicated matter.

I am well aware that when Lore looks at the footage from his monitor – the one we could not disengage – he'll see me. It's a matter of time – a race. LaForge can hide one transport, but Picard will be with Data before I'll even be out of the access tunnel.

The plan works.

To a point.

Lore is already there, waiting, as soon as Aquiel and Picard are out. As if he knew what I'd come back to do.

He kisses me, hard and demanding and angry, as he binds my hands behind my back, but this time the binding isn't merely a uniform sash, and I know I won't be freed if I fellate him to an orgasm. My wrists are locked into mag-cuffs, and then he's marching me to the agony booth.

 **(+A+)**

Being rolled by The Counselor had rendered me unconscious. I have no such respite in the booth. I am being tortured by a man who knows my body, knows my responses, has intimate knowledge of what I can and cannot tolerate: the 'benefit' of sharing a bed for months.

At least he's uncuffed me.

Lore never allows me the release of unconsciousness. He keeps particle beams and electro-shocks pulsing just to the point of me blacking out, and then he eases back before starting again, on and on, until I taste blood in my mouth and my vision turns to shapeless sparkles.

Shapeless sparkles, except for his eyes, yellow cold fusion staring at me with anger and betrayal.

Then he starts talking.

"It was bad enough that you fucked my brother, Lover, but you turned traitor also. Does it hurt? Does it make you want to scream?"

Through gritted teeth, I manage a tight, caustic, "Yes."

"Do you want me to stop? If you scream, I'll stop." He pauses and smirks at me, "Come on, Baby, just one scream."

I don't to give in to him, but there's literally no part of my body that isn't burning in pain. I'm convulsing enough that I vomit on the floor; I've long since lost control of my bladder.

"No?" he asks, his tone as casual as if he's asking me if I want coffee or tea. "Then we'll just have to work harder."

The vibrations of the beams and electrical currents increase less gradually this time. I feel like my head is going to explode. I'm pretty sure if he kept going, it actually would.

I scream.

Nothing changes.

I _scream_.

I hear Lore's voice, but I can't discern what he's saying. It's just more noise, mixed in with the whine of the agony booth machinery, the hum of the particle beam, even the subtle sounds of the ship's engines decks away are filling my senses.

I **SCREAM** , wordless and anguished, and when that doesn't work, I beg: "Please, Lore, just kill me now."

Everything stops.

He speaks one word, "No."

At least I think that's what he says. I'm still overwhelmed by pain and sounds, for all most of them are now phantom.

"Did you hear me, Lover?" _Why does he persist in calling me that?_ "I said 'no.' I _should_ kill you. Captain Riker gave me your life. It's mine to take. But there are worse things than death."

I'd begun the session on my feet, but have been sprawled against the wall of the booth for god knows how long. Now I manage to roll onto my hands and knees, and I empty my guts onto the floor. There's blood in with the bile, but I'm so disconnected from myself that it barely registers as mine.

 _Prolonged sessions in the agony booth cause internal bleeding_ , I remember reading. I never thought I'd see it happen from inside the booth.

"Answer me!"

I look up at him – at Lore – and I see rage on his face, but hurt too. _God, he really did care about me in some twisted way,_ I realize. But it doesn't matter. It hasn't mattered in a month. "I… heard… you…" I gasp.

Suddenly he's in the booth with me, looming over me to look into my face. "You have a way off the ship?"

"Beacon…" I gasp. "Tongue stud… expires… outer hull."

"Can you walk?"

I stare into his bearded face, confused.

"Why? Sending… them… my corpse?" I'm panting, and it hurts to breathe even shallowly. I heave again, more blood.

His voice is soft. Almost seductive. He's whispering directly into my ear, as if he's afraid someone's monitoring us.

 _Of course someone's monitoring us_ , I think.

"No, Lover. As I said, I'm not going to kill you. I'm not even going to send you back and track you. I considered it. Taking out my brother might benefit my career. But it seems I'm not quite ready to be alone in the universe."

I've always assumed it was only fictional villains who performed confessional monologues. I never expected Lore to resort to such contrived behavior. For a moment, I wish he'd be silent, let me just drown in pan and bile and be done with me. Then I realize that as long as he's next to me, speaking to me, he isn't physically torturing me.

I can live with tha – wait… _what?_

"If I'm not being killed, are you dumping me in the brig?" My breathing has improved slightly.

"I _would_ kill you before I left you there," he says, and when I turn to look at him, our eyes meet, and I see a hint of vulnerability behind his usual calm. "If you cannot walk, I will carry you."

"Don't understand…" I mutter as he scoops me into his arms.

"We are going to the auxiliary shuttle bay," he informs me. "At which point you will activate your escape beacon, and I will ensure that you are retrieved by – I am assuming it is Data?"

I nod, and instantly regret the action. Quietly, I ask, "Why?"

He holds his answer until we're in the turbo-lift.

"Because my brother will see your fragile, bloodied body, and the sight will be indelibly etched into his positronic memory. He will see you this way, and he will have to live with the knowledge that he caused it, first by turning you, and then by fucking you, and finally by sending you back here."

I shouldn't be surprised. I have always known that Lore can be cruel or kind in equal measures. I gasp anyway. Maybe he'll assume it's just pain.

"As for you, Lover," he continues, "you're going to remember that I held your life in my hands, and gave it back to you. I might come looking for you some day; I might not. But every second you exist from here on out, you owe to me."

I want to spit in his face. I want to strip the artificial skin from his titanium and duranium skeleton. I want to do a million horrible things I didn't have the strength to accomplish. And then I remember.

Lore sets me down on my feet. It hurts to move. I can barely stand. I lean against him because I have no choice.

He lifts my head, and claims a final kiss from me, just as brutal and demanding as the one he stole in the brig. Acid floods my mouth.

I squirm.

"Activate your beacon, Lover."

I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth, hard, and feel the slight pulse of the microscopic circuitry doing its thing. It'll be five minutes, I know, before a transporter beam takes me.

If Data's still in range. If the beacon works. If, if, if…

I realize that I have one thing I can do to give myself a little insurance if the worst should happen. Mustering my best acting skills, I look into the face of my former lover. His eyes, mustache, beard are imprinted on my memory, just as his casual cruelty and nonchalant charm will always be.

"As goodbye kisses go, that was hardly your best work," I say.

"I suppose you deserve better to send you off to a life of blandness," he responds. He pulls me tight against him, his fingers digging into my ass. I can feel him harden in his trousers.

I slide my arms around him.

"Oh, Lover… sure you don't want one last ride?"

My fingers find the point Data had shown me on his own body.

"My name," I tell him as I press the switch that will deactivate him, "is _Zoe._ "

The transporter beam takes me just as his inert body thuds to the deck.

* * *

 **Notes:** The pass-phrases used between Zoe and Geordi are from a beginning piano book I used when I was a child. Aquiel Unari is a comm specialist in the prime universe. We meet her in the season six episode "Aquiel."


	7. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

I collapse on the deck of the shuttle as soon as the transporter releases me. On hands and knees, I'm shaking and heaving, but there's nothing left inside me to expel except blood and spittle.

"Mon Dieu!" I hear the faintly accented French words from a voice I've only ever heard before on holo-vids and newsfeeds. "Data, help me! Who is this girl?"

I'm dimly aware of Data's voice setting the autopilot, and his footsteps entering the main cabin. Then two pairs of strong arms lift me, placing me in the co-pilot's chair in the cockpit. It's reclined, but not flat; I'm just enough vertical that I won't choke.

"Captain, this is Zoe Harris, late of the _Enterprise_. It is she who executed the plan for your… extraction."

I want to object. I want to clarify that all I did was set the plan in motion, that Geordi and Aquiel did all the hard work. I can't find the strength to form words, so I seek Data's gaze and hold with my own for a few seconds. "Tired…" I manage. "Hurts…" I add, and then, because I want him to know my feelings for him haven't changed I tack on, "Missed you."

His lips press gently against my forehead. "I have missed you also," he says softly. "Sleep. We will care for you as best we can until we return home."

I manage the ghost of a nod and then let my eyes close. I don't really sleep, but I'm not really awake either. I'm semi-aware of the instruments being passed over me, the soft murmurs of the two men who are caring for me. Eventually, the pain eases enough for me to let that awareness slip away.

 **(+A+)**

If my first arrival at Omicron Theta (I know, now, what planet the Resistance uses as its home base.) was quiet, this homecoming feels triumphant. Picard, despite having been first undercover, then in the _Enterprise_ brig, is not unhealthy, just poorly hydrated and slightly malnourished. He leaves the shuttle under his own power, and is warmly greeted by many – some of whom I recognize.

The Maestro, I notice, is not among them.

I, on the other hand, am carried out on a stretcher. Alyssa's face betrays the truth of her concern for me, but I'm not worried about myself. "My father?" I ask, my voice weak. "Is he…?"

"He's still with us," she assures. "You'll see him soon. I'm going to sedate you now." She turns to Data, "I'll call you – " she begins.

"I will accompany you," he counters. His tone is firm.

A hypospray hisses against my arm, and this time, I feel more than merely a loss of awareness, I feel like my whole self is dissipating.

 **(+A+)**

I wake in the med-center to find my father in his wheelchair, next to my bed. "Daddy?" I ask, my voice cracking from disuse.

"Pigeon…"

"How long?" I ask.

"Four days, sweetie." He raises his voice, "Doc, she's awake."

I expect Alyssa to appear, but instead it's a slightly older woman with long red hair, and a warm smile. "Well, hello, Zoe," she greets me as she inspects the readouts on the monitors above my head. "It's nice to finally meet you. I'm Beverly Crusher… I think you might have met my son, Wes."

I manage a chuckle, sort of. "We've run into each other," I say. "He _really_ doesn't like me. Could I have some water?"

She peers at the readouts again, and then looks at me. "I'm a little worried that you won't be able to keep it down – what did they _do_ to you on that ship? But I'll let you try." She steps away long enough to replicate it, and then returns. "Tiny sips at first," she instructs.

I don't feel hungry, but I have that empty feeling that means every sip of water can be felt going all the way down. And straight water has never tasted so good.

"How are you?" this new doctor asks me. "Any cramping or nausea?"

I shake my head. "I'm fine. Just really thirsty."

Her smile returns. "That's not unusual. You've been getting nourishment via IV, but that doesn't do anything to keep your throat moist."

"Am I okay, now?"

"Yes and no," she equivocates. "I've healed all the damage from…"

"… the agony booth?" I ask, and when she nods, I manage a wry grin. "Lore's kind of a master with that thing. I remember vomiting a lot of blood."

"Yes, you did. As I said, the damage is healed, but you're still depleted. I want to keep you here for the rest of the day, but if you continue to keep water down, and can tolerate broth this afternoon, I'll send you home to recuperate in more comfortable surroundings."

She glances past me at my father, and continues, addressing him, "Maestro, Alyssa will be back in an hour. Do you want to remain with Zoe, or shall I take you home?"

"If he's up to it, I'd like him to stay," I say, before my father can answer.

The old man reaches out to pat my hand. "I wouldn't leave, even so," he states. "I'm fine, Doc. Might even join my pigeon for some broth when it's time."

"Alright then. Zoe, call me if you need anything, okay?"

"I will," I promise. The doctor leaves us, and I turn to my father. "How bad was I, really?"

"We nearly lost you, Pigeon. It took Alyssa and the Doc hours just to stabilize you. They've been taking turns keeping watch on the monitors, but now that you're awake, you'll be able to go home, and rest there in a less antiseptic environment."

"Dad, that's great… but last I knew I didn't _have_ an official home. Unless you plan to turn your library into a guest room?"

"Don't you?" he asked. "I was under the impression that you were quite comfortable sharing quarters with Data." His tone is gentle when he says it.

"I… " I hesitate, unsure how to answer. "Where _is_ Data?"

"He's been keeping watch over you every night, little bird, but he also has duties of his own. If he knew you were awake, I'm sure he'd come running."

"Every night?" I ask, touched.

"Every night, all night."

I close my eyes to ward off the tears that are suddenly threatening. "I was so afraid I'd fail, Daddy. I didn't want to disappoint you. Or him."

"You couldn't have disappointed us, Zoe. Even if you had failed, we wouldn't have blamed you. We're grateful you managed to escape."

"I didn't escape, Dad… Lore… Lore _sent_ me back. To punish me. And to hurt Data."

My father stared at me for a long time. Then he patted my hand again. "I think you know whom you have to discuss this with, Zoe."

"If you see him, can you let him know I'm awake?"

"Of course, pigeon."

Alyssa arrived then, and came to see how I was doing. "It's good to have you back, Zoe," she said. "It's even better to have you awake. You know, Data's been practically living here while you were unconscious."

"Yes, I heard that," I said. "I heard you and Dr. Crusher were both involved in keeping me alive, as well. Thank you."

The older woman's smile was warm. "You were touch and go for a while, but you're a fighter." She peered at the monitors, and read the notes keyed into the system. "I'm going to get you another cup of water. After you drink it, you should try to rest. I'll make sure Data wakes you when he gets here; you can have dinner with him."

I look away, trying to hide the blush I know is forming. When I look back at her, I ask, "Is there anyone in this community who doesn't know about Data and me?"

"Not many, no."

"Fantastic."

Alyssa laughs and then turns her attention to my father. "I think it's time you went back to bed for a while, Maestro."

"If you insist," my father responds graciously. "Zoe, I'll see you in the morning if not before. I love you, child."

"I love you, too, Daddy," I respond. I watch as Alyssa wheels him away. Not for the first time I wonder if there's more between them than a mere doctor/patient relationship, and I'm not sure how I feel about it.

I drink the water I was given, and despite the fact that I've been basically asleep for days, I do succumb to the need for a nap. When I wake up, the lights are slightly dimmer, and Data is in a chair next to my bed. "Hey," I say, not wanting to call attention to us.

"Zoe!" His volume remains constrained but there is real relief in his voice. "I am gratified that you are awake," he adds.

"Gratified, huh?" I can't help but tease a little. "It's a start, I guess. How are you?" I ask, shifting my tone to one a little more intimate. "How's Captain Picard?"

"The captain has recovered from his time in the _Enterprise_ brig, and is gratified to be reunited with his family."

"He has a family?"

"He and Dr. Crusher married several years ago," Data explains. "He adopted Wesley as well, though it was mostly a formality."

"I had no idea," I say. "I'm glad they're back together. Families shouldn't be apart."

"No," he agrees, "they should not."

"Can you help me sit up?" I ask. "Dr. Crusher said I could try some broth tonight, and that I was allowed to leave the med bay if I can keep it down. I'm all for getting out of here, but I'm not sure I have any place to go…" I let the words trail off even as Data is supporting me while I move into a more vertical position. "I'm sorry, I don't know how else to start this conversation. Did my father tell you that it was Lore who got me off the ship?"

"He did."

"He wanted you to see me bloody and hurt. He wanted you to blame yourself. He said you'd remember forever, what I looked like. But Data, it wasn't your fault. I volunteered to go."

"He is correct about the memory of your injuries being indelible, Zoe." His voice is so soft that I can't read the inflection. "But so are the memories of the injuries I caused you directly. There was no joy in having to harm you," he adds. "I would undo it all, if I could."

"I know," I tell him. "I know you would. I think we just have to decide if we can live with that, and if we can live with the deeper knowledge that sending me back to you demonstrated something I honestly hadn't expected."

"One moment." Data steps away from me. I hear him working at the replicator and then he is back with a mug full of steaming broth. "It is vegetarian; I thought that would be the gentlest on your system."

"Thank you." I accept the mug and spoon from him and just breathe in the aroma. I hadn't felt hungry until the smell of food hit my senses. Now I hear my stomach growling, and wrinkle my nose in response. "Sorry."

"Do not apologize for typical bodily functions, Zoe." I respond to that with a nod, but he continues. "Will you tell me what it was about my brother that… surprised you?"

I choose my words very carefully. "When I first met Lore, I was attracted to him, but… I was never in love with him. I knew I was too young for someone in his position, but he seemed to think otherwise. I assumed our relationship was solely about politics and power." I shake my head, confused. "I never expected that he actually cared about me… I mean, it was a sick, twisted version of caring, but… I'm a horrible person Data."

"May I sit?" he asked, gesturing to the bio-bed.

"Sure."

He joined me, sitting close enough that I could sense, rather than hear, the subtle thrum of your internal systems. "Zoe, I do not believe you to be 'horrible,' in any sense. You are very young, and you have been caught in a situation you should not have been required to navigate. If my brother did, indeed, come to care for you in some fashion, I believe that speaks to _your_ character."

"I turned him off," I blurt.

"Zoe?"

"Right after I activated the signal beacon in the tongue stud. I pretended I wanted to kiss him goodbye and I deactivated him. He wasn't going to hurt me any further. He was letting me go." I finish the broth, using the time to gather my thoughts. "I'm tired," I tell him. "I should go back to sleep, I think."

"I will find the doctor and arrange for your release."

"Release?"

"Do you not wish to… come home?"

"With you?"

"Yes. I have been told more than once that the comfort of home is a benefit to the healing process. I will not require you to share the bed, if you no longer wish to pursue that aspect of our… "

"Do you… still want to?" I interrupt.

"My… feelings… about us have not changed, Zoe. I would welcome the continued exploration of 'what we are' to one another, when you are ready. Until then, you are healing, and I am uniquely qualified to provide you with the care you require."

I tilt my head to look at him for a long moment. "You're used to me being there, aren't you?" I ask. "You _like_ sharing quarters with me."

Guileless as ever, Data fixes his yellow eyes on my face. "Yes," he answers honestly. "I believe we… fit."

I press the call button on the bio-bed controls and when the doctor – it's Crusher this time – appears, Data confirms that I successfully consumed broth, and that I would like to be allowed to go home with him.

"I want you to rest a lot for the next week," she directs. "Let Data fetch and carry for you, and if you're comfortable with having help in the shower, let him do that, too."

I glance at the android still sitting next to me on the bed. "We'll manage," I say, more for him than for her. "Thank you."

 **(+A+)**

For the rest of the week, Data and I coexist much as we did in my first weeks here. We don't touch, except when his hand is at my back, or when I need help with something. There's no kissing, and no sex. It's not that I don't want it… but I have a lot to work through.

I know he would happily resume the relationship we'd begun, but I feel like I need to focus on just getting myself back together.

So, what do I do? I rest a lot. I spend time with my father. I have lunches with Keiko and Alyssa and help Noah with his English homework. Data meets me every night before dinner, and we dine with Dad. Afterward, they play chess or just talk while I play the piano. On the fifth such evening, Data b brings his violin. Our impromptu duet is unrehearsed, but it still draws the attention of several members of the community. By the end of the evening, many of them have joined in, a fully-recovered Miles O'Brien has relieved me from the keyboard, and I'm pressed into singing.

In making music with these people, I feel completely at home for the first time I can remember, and I discover that I still have the capacity to feel joy.

That night, as we are leaving my father's chambers, I slip my hand into Data's. I know the old man sees the gesture, but it's the younger man's reaction I'm focused on. He looks down at our intertwined fingers, and then back up at my face, and I don't miss the question in his eyes.

"Go on and kiss him; you know you want to," my father observes from his bed. "

"Dad!"

"Humor an old man, Pigeon. It would do me good to see my daughter and my adopted son happy together."

My father is correct. I _do_ want to kiss him, very badly. I glance at Data, attempting to gauge his thoughts. His face – that beautiful golden face – is open, expectant. I release his hand, raising both of mine to rest them flat against his chest. "This isn't just because Dad wants it," I whisper, low enough that only he can hear.

When our lips meet, it's a completely different kind of homecoming.

 **(+A+)**

My father surprises us all by holding onto life until summer turns to fall, not that there's a noticeable change of seasons on the surface of this world, or in the underground home we occupy. His memorial service is brief, but heartfelt, and as is the custom in the Resistance, he is cremated and his ashes mixed into the soil for a new tree in the arboretum.

When everyone else has left the green space, I collapse onto the ground near the sapling that represents Dad, and water it with my tears, until Data, recognizing my need, lifts me into his arms. "Come, Zoe. Allow me to take you home."

I have no words. I'm too raw. I let him cradle me against his body, and carry me back to our rooms, to our bed.

Our joining is tender.

We begin with him on top, smoothing my hair away from my face. "Zoe, are you certain you want to…?" he asks. Not so long ago, he asked every time.

"I want this. I want _you_." I stretch up to kiss him, as I've done so many times in the past months. My hands slide over his arms, his back. I tug at his shirt. "I _need_ you."

Data doesn't often use his android speed when we're in bed – he says he prefers to be thorough – but he responds to my statement, my urgency, by pulling off, first his own clothing, then mine. _Yes, this. This is what I need._

Skin to skin, my hands move up and down his body, and his hands tease first my breasts, and then, when my nipples have become stiff peaks, he lowers his mouth to first one and then the other while his fingers insinuate themselves between my legs.

My first orgasm is just from his fingers inside me, and his mouth on my nipples, and he holds me while I tremble from all the sensations.

When I've recovered enough to speak I demand, "More… please, more."

Data claims my mouth with his, and as we kiss, he rolls us so I'm straddling him. He reaches for my hair and pulls it from the bun I'd twisted it into for the memorial, tangling his fingers into it. I can feel his length between my legs, and he lifts me slightly, helping me find the right position.

The first time we'd made love in this position, it had been awkward – it wasn't a new position for me, but any 'first' with a new lover can be bumpy – and it had taken time for us to learn what was, in his word, 'optimal.'

He may prefer thorough, but at that moment, I want fast, and I want fierce. I ride him until I'm almost at climax again, and when I'm ready, when I'm close, I tell him, "Now," and he triggers his own release.

Sated and spent, I let the next round of tears come. Data, meanwhile, wraps me in his solid embrace and pulls the covers over us both. "Cry yourself out," he whispers into my hair. "Beloved, I am here. You are not alone."

I don't realize until the next morning that in his understated way, Data has declared his love for me. I do wake feeling much more even-keeled, and when I join him in the main room of our apartment, and hug him from behind, I say, "I heard what you said last night; I love you, too, you know."

His hands reach up to cover mine, squeeze slightly, and then let go.

 **(+A+)**

 _Three years later…_

"Very well then," Jean-Luc says, glancing at each of us who are sitting around the kitchen table with him. "You and Zoe will remain here on Terlina III, along with Alyssa, Taurik, Sam, Laran, Keiko, and Miles. They'll continue setting up the cottages for new residents, get the hospital building ready, and start work on the school, while you establish a planetary comm link and defense grid."

"Am I to assume, then," Data asks, "that you and Beverly will be returning to Omicron Theta to continue our work there?"

"Yes, for now," Picard responds. "It's time for you young people to build your own lives, Data. The Empire has been in a state of relative peace for over a year, and you and Zoe deserve to focus on your dream now."

"Jean," I begin, "please don't think we don't want you here…"

"I would never believe that," the older man assures me. "And don't think we won't be in frequent communication. If nothing else, I expect to be made godfather to your son or daughter when she makes an appearance." His gruff tone does nothing to hide his affection.

My hands move to my belly seemingly of their own volition. As it so often had throughout history, prolonged peace had led to a surge of newborns throughout the empire, and it seemed an android and his lover were not immune to the desire to create new life. Thanks to donor sperm from a source we've chosen not to reveal outside a select few, Data and I are only a few weeks away from becoming a family of three instead of two, which is one of the reasons we volunteered to take charge of this new venture.

Our 'dream' was really my father's: he'd hoped for a short-lived resistance followed by a resurgence of the arts. No one's really sure how Empress Kira Nerys - a Bajoran – came into power, but most people are grateful for the change. When my mother – who, as far as I was aware, still believed I was dead – ascended to the position of Prime Minister, she began enacting changes to Empire policy, beginning with restoring Starfleet as an organization of defense and scientific exploration, rather than an aggressive force. She had, it would seem, been on the right side all along, and had simply been biding her time. We talk, sometimes, about telling her where we are, and allowing her to know her granddaughter, but so far, it's only talk.

Terlina III had originally belonged to Data's creator, Dr. Soong, and my father had managed to protect it as an asset, something we only discovered months after his death. Only the main house – _our_ house – had modern conveniences, but when you'd been living underground – in many case literally – for the better part of a decade, a basic cottage and the chance to be a founding member of a multispecies arts colony was incredibly attractive.

I glance at my partner and give him a nod. "Sir," he says to his former commanding officer, "it would be our honor if you would be godfather to Lal when she is born."

"It's a girl, then?" he asks, and follows it immediately with, "Lal is an interesting name."

"It is the Hellean word for 'soul,'" Data explains. "We felt it to be an appropriate choice."

No one would have understood why a Hellean name has meaning for us, but Jean-Luc does, and he shares one final piece of information. "You might be interested to know that Geordi and Aquiel's son Jayden was born three weeks ago."

I share another look with Data and then I say. "Give them our regards, please? And remind them they're welcome here."

"I will certainly do so," Jean-Luc promises. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to bed. I have a long flight in the morning."

"Rest well, sir," Data tells him. "Zoe and I will be retiring as well."

We wait for the former captain, and current leader of what remains of the Resistance, to leave the kitchen and enter the guest room, and then Data and I engage in our newly-formed ritual of checking all the doors, and turning off unnecessary lights.

Through the glass doors, I can see that a one of the cottages dotting the shore of our lagoon still has a light on. "Looks like Noah is up late, studying," I observe.

"He wishes to follow his aunt into medicine," Data reminds me. "I believe he will excel in his chosen field."

"I hope he has the chance," I say.

We head to our own room then, where we change for bed and settle ourselves under the covers, but I can't get comfortable as quickly as I'd like to.

Data doesn't miss my squirming. "Is something wrong, Beloved?"

I shake my head, smiling. "Not exactly. Your daughter is just doing somersaults tonight."

"Last night, you described her movements as kickboxing."

"Last night, that's how it felt."

Data adjusts his position against our pillows so that his arm is around me. "She is always calmer when I am holding you," he observes. He rests his other hand against my stomach. "Good night, Lal," he whispers, directing the words to the developing lifeform I'm carrying. "Sleep well, Zoe," he continues.

The kiss we share is brief and relatively chaste, but it holds the promise of many, many more.

As I drift to sleep, safe in my partner's arms, my thoughts stray to his brother, just for a second. We haven't heard any word of Lore in over a year. It's possible he's plotting some move against us, but it's equally possible he's chosen to simply disappear. I try not to worry about it too much, and when I can't push the worry down, Data reminds me that I am not alone, and never will be.

My father once told me that the best revenge was living well. We've resolved to do just that.

* * *

 **Notes:** I thought about a grim ending, but I just couldn't do it. At least not this time. Sorry, **Javanyet**. I guess I'm reacting to the amount of darkness in the real world these days. This story inspired by the IDW TNG comic book series Mirror Broken, and the Tamara Moir poem "A Broken Mirror, the full text of which is:

A broken mirror

A distorted face

A shattered heart

A clear distaste

A fallen tear

A reddened eye

A downturned mouth

A year gone by

A loaded gun

A finished fear

A bloodied wall

A broken mirror...

Thanks for reading. Now that this piece is complete, I'll be focusing on Crush III: Sostenuto for a while. The primary versions of Data and Zoe are a bit irritated about being neglected for so long.


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